


That Year in London

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [2]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:46:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Long lost letters from home brings back memories of Newkirk's stint as 'The Professor', and that Year in London when he first became acquainted with Clan O'Donnell and that impossible youngster he tried to shepherd through the East End of London.  Although the letters bring comfort and hope to him, along with the memories, they are a source of entertainment to the rest of the men of the barracks as well.  Except for one man, a man who really wishes those letters had stayed lost.    Then, we hear from the Brat, herself, as she relates the events of that Year in London from HER point of view.





	1. Letter - Lost and Found

She knew he'd been shot down over Germany, that much she could find out, but where and in what condition, that was not something the RAF seemed to know just yet. 'Just Yet!' It's been almost a year, and all she'd been able to get were rumors, maybe this Stalag, maybe that, nothing concrete. She contacted Mavis, Maude and Marisol; they'd heard nothing more than she had. Maude and Marisol were not surprised at her searching; Mavis was, and hadn't seemed terribly pleased, but Caeide ignored that and put it down to his sister's own concern. She'd hardly let it disuade her. She'd sent letters to the Stalag's mentioned, hoping against hope, but with no response. She was frantic, and more than a little bitter; if she'd pushed the issue with him, all those years ago, maybe he'd be somewhere safe. If she'd pushed the issue with him, then or anytime inbetween, at least she'd have had a chance of tracking him through the bond. But a one-sided bond didn't work that way; she knew, Sweet Mother, she knew, for she'd tried long and hard, everything she could think of, everything she'd read in legend or in history. Nothing.  
.  
Finally, word from Maude; Stalag 13, it'd been confirmed, for sure this time, at least for now, although the Germans had a way of moving prisoners around. She hadn't been able to pry any information out about his condition; things seemed to be confined to family, if even released to them, and she'd heard they weren't very often, especially if the news wasn't good. If they were lucky, they heard where their loved ones were being held; sometimes they heard if they'd died. It was rare to get anything inbetween. Still, she now had a watching brief set for his name, for any information from that Stalag, anything.

For now, all she could do was write letters, continuing the practice she'd started when she returned from that year in London. Sometimes he'd written back, actually more often than she'd expected, never as often as hers, but still something. Nothing now, though, nothing since he'd been shot down.

 

**********

Schultze cautiously opened the door to Barracks 2, holding the letters out of sight til he was safely inside, tucked between the door and the corner of Newkirk and Carter's bunk. He was likely to be mobbed once they knew the mail had arrived, and he liked to be in a secure place when that happened. A cheer went up when he announced, "Mail Call!" and the men ganged around him, loud, boisterous. "Hogan, Kinchloe, Carter, Olson, LeBeau, Newkirk . . ."

Soon all the letters were distributed and he turned to leave, but stopped at the sight of the tall Englishman sitting on Carter's bunk, staring in disbelief at the sizeable bundle of letters in front of him. "Oh, yah, Newkirk, most of those just came in from Stalag 6."

Newkirk frowned in bewilderment, "But I was never IN Stalag 6!"

"Yah, but whoever was sorting them at the Red Cross sent the first one there by mistake, and that was what was then placed on the record at that first processing station where the letters came from, so that's where the rest of them from that same place were sent too, and since you WEREN'T there, they kept them til the Red Cross collected them during an inspection last month and sent them on to you here. The Red Cross was not pleased that they had held them, either, though better that than discarding them, of course. The last one, maybe two, were sent directly here though."

Newkirk sorted through all the letters; he ran his thumb over the return address, all reading the same, "Haven Farm", and his breathing slowed as he realized how many months of letters this stack represented, two a month since he'd been shot down, perhaps more. He looked up at LeBeau and said, almost in a whisper, "I never 'eard, thought maybe she'd decided she'd not want to be bothered with writing anymore. I didn't 'ave 'er direction with me, and it's not an easy one, so there was no remembering enough of it to writing 'er to see." And slightly shamefaced, "I could 'ave written Maude or Marisol and asked, but . . .maybe I didn't want to 'ear that she'd just decided I wasn't worth the bother anymore."

LeBeau asked "Who, Pierre? A girl friend? I know it's not your sister."

"What? Oh, no, nothing like that. Caeide, well, I was one of 'er, guess you could say, teachers for a year. Me, Maudie, Marisol, all three of us were - 'er family called us 'mentors'; it's just part of what they do when their young ones get to be thirteen, set them out with these mentors to teach them all kinds of things. She always wrote, though, every two weeks or so, after that year, and I'd write back, more often than not, even after I put on this uniform. Just, once I ended up in bloody Germany, there were no more letters, even when there'd been enough time for there to be. Thought she'd just . . ." and his voice drifted off, his fingers moving over the stack of letters in his hands, unbelieving, one every two weeks, without fail, without fail.>p>

With a shake of his head, he started putting them in order, first date to most recent, curled up in his bunk to start reading. Soon, the leaky roof above him faded out, to be replaced with a blue sky filled with white clouds; the thin plywood walls disappeared, green fields dotted with short fluffy sheep appearing at the corner of his vision, steep cliffs forming behind them, a large arch of hewn stone on the horizon overlooking the sea, and the air seemed cleaner, and all the other voices faded away, to be replaced with a soft voice, slightly husky, telling him all the doings at Haven, her thoughts, her concerns, her well wishes for him, her remembrances, and he felt not quite so alone, and he smiled, a smile his teammates wondered at, for it was a smile unlike any they'd seen on his face before. 

He read the letters again and again, and eventually gave in to the pleadings of the others to help alleviate their boredom, and them having heard all his jokes and tired of showing off card tricks, offering to read her letters aloud, as the others did sometimes with theirs. By the time the next mail call came around, he'd read all of them out loud, twice over even, and Haven and Caeide had become real to them as well, and they were waiting for him to read the latest, because, yes, there were new ones in the batch handed out by Schultze, but he just smiled and said, "Later, mates. Give me time with it; I'll give it a read for you later," and that became the pattern. He'd read each letter, many times, then, about halfway to when the new batch would be expected, would share the letter with them.

During one long spell of bad weather and illnesses, they'd asked him to read them again, starting from the beginning, and he did so. Once Kinch asked him, "Pete, you said she was thirteen when you taught her. How long ago was that?" and Peter thought back, frowned, "I'd kinda lost track, but I'd put it at around six years now."

"Wow, you've been pen pals for six years?! That's really something!" Carter enthused, and Louie, who'd been wondering about this for some time, "that would make her, what, nineteen now?"

"Yes, thereabouts, maybe a bit older; she was with us til she turned fourteen."

Hogan had never paid too much attention to the letters before, other than some amusement at the rural life described, got a slight frown on his face at that, for some reason. Somehow, someone Newkirk described as a girl he'd mentored, a thirteen year old, seemed quite different than a woman, twenty years old, someone who'd written consistently for six years, even here to a prisoner of war camp. Somehow, he didn't think he'd enjoy hearing those letters anymore. He was pretty sure he didn't care for that look that Newkirk got on his face while he was reading the letters, like he was somewhere far away, and he wasn't too pleased with that smile, either.

But for Newkirk, those letters, the life they represented - they formed a beacon, urging him on, reminding him there was a life beyond the war - maybe not HIS life, not a life he could see himself fitting into, of course, but a life rich with simple meaning. And perhaps they did the same for the others, because when he read them out loud, there was a different feel in the barracks. Sometimes there was laughter, sometimes they talked about what she'd written, sometimes Newkirk was teased to expand on some story, some event she'd mentioned. But whatever it was, it was something different than what they experienced here on a day to day basis - something cleaner, rich with the scent of growing things, warmer somehow. And while the smile the letters brought to Peter Newkirk was a special, private one, his companions each wore a smile of their own, (well, except for the Colonel), and looking around the barracks he knew it was worth having shared that piece of himself with them. And, for himself, it brought memories of that year in London, memories that made him laugh to himself sometimes, thinking of all she'd put him through, that Brat.


	2. The Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan O'Donnell was, well, different - an ancient Clan, with their own ways, their own mysteries and talents. One of their ways included the sending out of their young men and woment when they reached thirteen years of age, sent them out to Intern with those the Clan trusted to teach them more of the outside world, the Outlander world. Caeide O'Donnell spent her Internship in the East End of London and never regretted it, though it changed her life, indeed, turned it upside down in many ways. Peter Newkirk had only an uneasy concept of all the Clan represented, felt he was better off not knowing more. That year in London - him mentoring the O'Donnell girl, well, him and Maude and Marisol together. Lord, sometimes she'd almost driven him mad with worry and frustration. At others, he'd thought it lucky he was already a drinking man before, because he surely would have been by the time she'd been there a few weeks. He had strong memories of that year, certainly. But what about her? What did she remember about that time? What made her continue to write to him, every two weeks without fail, even after all this time? This is her account of that year in London.

Caeide was well satisfied that Maude and Marisol had been selected to act as her mentors for her Internship year. She found in herself a true likeing for the older Maude, pub owner, and the thirty-ish Marisol, who alternated a variety of odd occupations, all in the East End of London. It was a poor, rough area, but the people were interesting, and had been welcoming of her. As was the custom, she was in character as a younger version of her own self.

At thirteen, by her people's standards she was a woman grown, physically and in all other ways; by the outside world, even in this area where the girls matured to women faster than in the posher areas of the city, she was still considered more a child than a woman, and so she put on the cloak of disguise, adopted the mannerisms and voice of a younger version of Caeide; as a girl she'd be considered oversized for her age; as a boy, just about right. She didn't pretend to be a boy, she just left it rather ambigious - boy, tomboy, whatever. She dressed as a boy might, kept her unwieldly bosom held down with a tight undershirt, wore her hair tightly braided and coiled at the back of her head, high enough to be kept concealed under her ever present cap, kept her knives in their arm sheaths, and carried her small pistol at the small of her back under her jacket, as she'd been taught. Maude and Marisol had raised eyebrows at the weaponry, but knew enough of the Clan not to dispute her decision to wear them.

They hadn't done this before, mentored one of the Clan's youngsters, though they had a friend who had done so, and when approached, had agreed. It paid well, it seemed like to be an interesting experience, and it never hurt to have the Clan think kindly of you, their friend had told them. Only thing was, whatever you learned of the Clan, that was to be kept to themselves, not talked about.

Marisol and Caeide were sitting at a side table in Maude's pub; it was too early for customers, so it was a good place to go over some of the lessons Marisol had in mind for the girl. Soon Marisol and Maude would introduce her to some of their friends, but they wanted her to get her bearings first, be more settled into her role as that 'eager youngster, possibly a relation of some sort, spending the year with Marisol.' Maude was behind the counter, planning out what she needed from the markets, what she planned to offer for the pub lunch over the next week.

All were well absorbed in their own doings when the lock on the front door snicked open, and two bulky men strode in; at the same time, two more came in from the back of the pub where they'd quietly forced the kitchen door. From the quick order thrown back over his shoulder by the tall rusty haired one, there was at least one more of their group outside. He swung the door shut, and smiled a particularly nasty smile at the three females. "Well, 'ello there, Marisol. Ya 'ad to uv know I'd find ya, interferring bitch that ya are!" Maude let out a cry as one of the two from the kitchen grabbed her and pushed her hard up against the cash register, holding her around the throat with one hand. 

Caeide looked over at Marisol, who'd turned several shades paler, "This is between you and me, Marrick, no need to involve either of these two," she coaxed. {"Marrick,"} Caeide thought, {"Maude told me of him and his gathering for the specialty brothels, and about Marisol interferring with his trying to snatch those two children. Doubt he's the compromising type,"} as she carefully eased her knives out of their sheaths. 

"Yeah, well that ain't for you to say, now is it?" he grinned, and pushed forward rapidly for a man his size to overturn the table they were sitting at. Caeide had to make a decision; she threw one knife, hitting the man holding Maude in the left eye, it sinking in til only the hilt protruded. "Maudie, get help!" she yelled, as she moved to reach for her revolver. The other man who'd come in from the kitchen moved in to stop her, as did Marrick and his companion. Marisol went down under a battery of blows, while Caeide tried to protect her and attack the three men at the same time. The revolver was knocked aside, and the world faded for Caeide as her Warrior aspect took over.

Maude took the opportunity to run out the back, and to the flat of their close friend, Peter, who she knew to be running a quiet poker game with some mates in his flat just a couple of buildings over. She moved faster than she had in years, pushing her way up the wooden stairs to the door, pounding on it, calling to him. He threw open the door with a massive frown; normally, such pounding would have meant the bobbies, and his mates would have been out the window, but they knew Maude's voice. He grabbed her as she started to fall, off balance with the door opening so quickly. "Maudie, what's the fuss?!"

"Marrick, my pub, 'e and 'is boys, they've got Marisol and that lass she's working with. Peter, you've got to 'elp them!"

He turned with a muttered curse, pushing her into a chair. "Come on, lads; seems Marrick thinks 'e can do as 'e likes in the East End, seemingly we need to show 'im otherwise!" He didn't slow down, but in the back of his mind he thought, {"Lass? Thought it was a lad she 'ad visiting."} He and his three friends ran down the stairs and to the pub. Peter took Davie with him, motioning the other two around to the front. 

They had no opposition in the kitchen and moved into the pub proper, where they were to see the one man down with a knife sticking out of his eye. Another was down with a deep dent where his Adam's Apple should have been, purpling and choking, eyes distended; it was plain he wasn't going to survive. Marisol was laying against the wall, face down, drawn to the side, moving but not much else. 

Ahead, oh that was the real picture! A girl dressed in boy's clothes, a knife in her hand, facing Marrick who was scowling at her, yelling obscenities at her. One of his men standing close behind her, his hand clutching the knot of hair at the back of her head, reaching around to grab her by the waist. Before Peter and Davie could move, the girl collapsed, letting all her weight hang in the hands of the one holding her; as she fell, she braced with one foot and used the other to kick Marrick so hard in the balls that Peter afterwards said, "if we'd tried to look for them, I'd think we'd a been best looking between 'is back teeth, seemingly that's where they'd 'ave ended up!". Marrick went to his knees with a high scream. The girl twisted in the grasp of the man holding her, and the knife in her hand slit him from crotch to breastbone, leaving him standing there, gaping down at the bloody ruin she'd left of him, before he also fell. She turned again, stepping in close to Marrick, the wide eyed man clutching himself as he knelt there; with one fast move she slit his throat from ear to ear, and moved back quickly as he fell forward onto the floor.

Peter started to move toward her, and she turned, eyes wide, watching him, breathing hard. He suddenly realized she didn't know him or Davie, had no reason to think they weren't more of Marrick's crew. He put on the brakes, held up his hands towards her, palms outwards. "Easy, luv, we've come to 'elp; Maudie sent us." He kept his voice low, calm, a comforting expression on his handsome face; the expression on her face didn't change, and Peter directed Davie over to check on Marisol.

Peter was rethinking the wisdom of having his hands, his means of livelihood, pushed out toward this youngster with that knife that she obviously knew quite well how to use to her advantage, and brought them back to his sides rapidly. The girl moved, smoothly, quickly, now standing between the two men and the woman on the floor, head tilted, appraisingly, bloody knife in a firm grip, looking at them, not saying a word, eyes ice cold. She reminded him a bit of a wolf he'd seen once in the zoo, same stance, same cold appraisal, same dire promise.

{"Alright then,"} Peter thought, {"that didn't work quite so well as I'd 'oped."} "Davie, check to see if the lads took care of any out front, and if there are any bodies what need to be dragged in 'ere". Davie started to protest, not wanting to leave Peter facing this wild child, but Peter motioned him out. {"Maybe one less will ease her down a bit,"} he thought. Before he had a chance to see if that would help, rescue came in the form of auld Maudie, who had caught her breath and come back to see what help she could give; she'd had the forethought to pick up her pistol from the kitchen, {"and a fine lot of good it did me in there; from now on, think it needs to stay in me pocket!"}. Spotting the situation, she moved further into the room, to where the girl could see her, though taking care not to get too close.

"Caeide, dear, it's alright. It's just Peter, 'e's a good lad, a good friend to us. 'e came to 'elp, 'e and 'is mates." She kept talking to the girl, calmly, quietly, letting the tension ease down. "Caeide, you need to let us get to Marisol; looks like she could use our 'elp. Caeide?" Finally getting through to the girl, Maude gave a huge sigh of relief when Caeide eased back, nodding to Maude, and looking at Peter appraisingly, and then with an astonished look of recognition, then with a wry smile of acceptance. Peter took the chance of reaching out to the girl again, although cautiously, ready to retreat at a second's notice if need be. Davie and the lads were back in the room, looking at the scene with disbelief - all this from one youngster???

Caeide felt herself returning from where ever she had gone when the Warrior had taken over; she looked around, at the men facing her, at the others on the floor, at Marisol on the floor and Maude now bending over her. "{Wow, that must have been something!"} When the Warrior was in full command, there wasn't room for both of them, not yet, not with this first rising, and she had been forced to retreat to a place where she only had a faint impression of what was happening.

Above all, she looked at the tall man facing her, the one with his hands outstretched a bit, palms up, as if in entreaty. His face showed caution, as well it should, but not fear, kindness and concern, not anger. The Warrior and the girl were both present now, the Warrior starting to fade, the girl starting to return; both looked at him, and a connection was made, perhaps renewed, somehow, between each of her aspects and this dark haired man with the kind eyes. As the Warrior departed totally, Caeide sat down abruptly on the floor, bending her upper body and head forward, breathing deeply, rapidly.

"Surely you'd be better off in a chair than there on the floor; I'll give you a 'and, if you'll let me," and she raised her head to see an outstretched arm, open hand in front of her. She looked at him again, thinking she could spend considerable time looking at that expressive face, looked at him, and reached up her hand to rest in his. He smiled and nodded at her, as he pulled her to her feet, "That's the ticket, now. Come on, need to get you settled so we can see what to do about this mess." He got her into a chair near Marisol, and started directing the other men, and before too long, the only thing left was the scrubbing of the floor for the blood stains. 

They got Marisol up to the bed in her room, where Maude could see to her. She'd been lucky, a mild concussion from a backhand from one of the men, a cracked collarbone from hitting the wall. Considering what Marrick was capable of, it was very lucky she was, indeed, though due to the girl, not to any intent on the ponce's part. The girl helped Maude, getting Marisol cleaned up, into bedclothes, though Maude had Peter help with setting the collarbone, seeing he was the stronger and could hold the woman in place better.

She sat crosslegged on the floor, watching. {"Yes, there's something about that one; don't know quite what it is, but I could do with knowing him better,"} she said to herself thoughtfully. She'd had a feeling the Warrior had recognized him, from somewhere, maybe somewhen.

And when, in the days to come, Marisol and Maude suggested that Peter might become a mentor as well, especially since Marisol wouldn't be at full speed for some time, Caeide thought it a good notion. She contacted the family, they agreed, and arrangements were made with Peter, similar to the ones with the two women, for a formal Internship, til her fourteenth birthday.

He was willing, if slightly uneasy; shepherding a thirteen year old girl through the East End would probably be more than a bit of trouble, but Maude and Marisol were all for it, the pay was quite good, and the girl eager. He refused to put any stock in that nonsense about 'thirteen not really being like thirteen' though; she was a girl child, she was in his care, at least somewhat, and she'd leave his care a girl child, as innocent as she entered it!

He'd have been more than a little dismayed to know the truth, that he and he alone would be responsible for the total dismantling of her innocence, all without willful knowledge or intent on his part!


	3. Adventures of A Big Red Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Peter Newkirk gets finds life more than he can handle, he gets an assist from a big red dog. What's next, 'white rabbits sitting on the end of his bed for him to tell his troubles to??'

.  
"Maudie, what's wrong with him?" Caeide whispered to the pub owner, who had just finished refilling the coffee cup of the young man with his head bent over the small round table. She'd never seen him like this, pale and shaking, his eyes clouded, not their usual clear blue-green, not showing any of the expressions she was used to seeing in them - not amusement, not annoyance or defiance, not even his steady watchful regard. It didn't seem like a hang-over, at least not like the others she'd seen with her brother and cousins, or even him, though she had to admit she'd only seen one of those since she'd been here. No, those eyes were sick, haunted, and they frightened her more than a little. Of course, she'd only met him a few weeks ago, just since he and his friends rushed in to help with Marrick and his gang, but still . . .

"Don't know yet, girl, 'e's not said much of anything since 'e walked in about an 'our or so ago. Seen 'im in a lot of moods, but nothing quite like this, I'll admit. Black dog visits 'im more than we'd all like, but that's nothing new." At the questioning look, Maude explained the depression that had burdened the young man almost as long as she'd known him, "since 'e was your age, even younger. Never easy to deal with then, not that some of 'is other moods are any great treat either, and don't even get me started on 'ow 'e is when 'e's taken ill, but that, the depression, that's the worst, the most worrisome. This, though, this is new." They watched, out of the corner of their eyes while he finished the coffee, and left out the rear door, not even giving them a glance, like he was in a fog. Maude shook her head with a frown, "mayhap Mari has some idea," she said with a shrug. But when the younger woman came down later, she was as puzzled as the others, but not so concerned, since she hadn't seen his odd behavior first hand. That changed when Peter came in later, and sat with his drink in his hand, ignoring them all, seemingly trying to drown himself in the glass.

Marisol gave a frustrated groan, "no, I can't get a word out of 'im bout what's the matter. Won't talk to me about much of anything, just sinks lower and lower. Something's 'appened, that's for certain, but what? Was fine on Wednesday, all set for putting together one of 'is poker games, but that never came to be. Davie was asking me just this morning why; the lads don't 'ave a glimmer and 'e's not talking to them either. Drat the man! If 'e'd only TALK to us!"

Maude explained to Caeide that Peter had always held things inside, never having been one for laying his feelings out on the table for all to see. "Still, some things 'e'd let slip to the lads; other things maybe to me or Mari, depending. Between the lot, we could usually see to lend a 'and. This, this isn't good, 'im not talking atall."

Caeide could only agree; she hadn't known the young man but this very short period of time, but she cared what happened to him, and now was worried right along with the rest. She made a point of staying close all the time he was in the pub, but he wasn't talking, not to her, not to anyone else, and when he left, alone and with a pint or two more in him than his usual, and a small bottle of something harder tucked into his jacket pocket, she slipped up to her room and watched from the window.

Heaving a sigh every bit as frustrated as Marisol's groan, she tightened her lips and slipped out of her clothes, and wearing only a long cloak wrapped closely around her, headed out the small window, grasping handholds she'd spied out her first day. When she was close enough to the ground to jump, she did, loosing the strings of the cloak as she did so, and her four paws caught her easily and silently. She used her nose and paws to tuck the black wrap behind the dustbin there, and shaking herself to settle her red fur into place, she trailed the tall Englishman as he strolled through the dangerous back alleys as if taking a Saturday walk through Mayfair.

{"What's he about, coming this way? Not paying any attention, head down, hands in his pockets, whistling as if he were some street lad out playing, like he's asking to get jumped! Going to get his fool throat cut if he doesn't snap out of it!"} She'd learned that right off, that the East End was not a place to go waltzing around with your head in the clouds, or hung down to the pavement either. It was a place full of danger, of many sorts, and you had to keep your wits about you if you wanted to stay in one piece. Some of the scavengers were content with what they could find and just dispense enough force to obtain it; others had no problem leaving a corpse behind, even seemed to prefer it to leaving a possible witness.

She stepped up her speed so that she now was just a few lengths behind him. He never even glanced around. She gave a huff of disgust, {"Maude says he's a canny one, for all he steps into trouble far too often. I'm not trying to be quiet or sly about this. Why hasn't he realized I'm back here??!"} Someone came out of the shadows, not fast, but with intent easy to read. She moved closer and let that someone, one of the scavengers who preyed on the unwary, let him see her, let him hear that faint snarl, see the bared teeth as she moved closer still. He moved back into the shadows, and as Peter moved on, seemingly unaware, and she followed; she turned to let out a snarl she hoped the fleeing man would hear in his nightmares. From the sound of his running feet, she might just have succeeded. That snarl, though, finally penetrated the daze that seemed to hold Peter in its grasp, since he turned and saw her, and his eyes widened as he blinked rapidly at the sight.

"Blimy, you're a big one, ain't you??! Never seen you around 'ere before," he said in some wonderment, and to her amusement. She'd have thought he'd yell to try and scare her away, or pull the knife she knew he carried, or maybe take off running, but no, just addressed her like she was a stray poodle or something. Well, maybe not a poodle, since it was unlikely too many of those made their way to these streets; but still, she was an oversized red wolf in this form, a hundred pounds and more of fur, muscles, claws and teeth, hardly one to be taken lightly. She didn't know if she should be impressed with his aplomb, irritated by his obvious lack of a decent sense of self-preservation, or pleased that he wasn't afraid of her. She was even more puzzled when he just turned around and continued his meandering way down the dark alley. With one good leap, she could have been on him and snapped his neck, torn out his throat.

She shook her head and continued following. If he currently didn't have the good judgement to be wary, she'd have to go along as protector. Somehow, he was important to her, and not just because of his coming to her rescue in the Merrick affair, and not just because he was someone her mentors cared about. {"HE is important. Maybe I'll figure out why later, but right now, that doesn't really matter."} He finally reached a spot with a set of wide steps leading to a decaying building, and he found a dry spot on the top step, leaned back against the wall and lit a cigarette. She studied him, again thinking, {"it's like he's deliberately making himself a target!"} And with a disgusted snort, made her way over and settled herself at his feet, trying to find a dry spot of her own.

"You need to run along 'ome, you do. Ain't safe out 'ere; all kinds of bad uns running around," he told her in a companionable tone of voice, his eyes still slightly unfocused, as he pulled out that small bottle of whiskey and started sipping away at it. She was starting to wonder if he'd gotten some bad liquor, or maybe those cigarettes had something other than tobacco rolled in them from his sheer indifference to the danger he'd put himself in. But soon she discovered it was something different, something worse, something that a good night's sleep wouldn't cure, and she ached for him.

"Grew up on the same street, we did; 'e was a bit older, not much though. Our mums knew each other, leaned on each other as much as possible, them being in the same boat, so to speak, least while they were there. Lost 'is first, then mine soon after. Maudie tried to fill the gap for us best she could, as much as our fathers would stand for. 'enry's father, a right bastard, like mine; strong fists, not afraid to use them, using them just as likely on 'is family as mine was. Drank too much, the pair of them, and mean drunks, more than they were when not, and that was more than enough, but not friends, like you might've thought, being so alike. No, couldn't stand the sight of each other, always going on about 'ow the other was a shiftless no account. Well, like wat's said about seeing the mote in another's eye and missing the one in your own. Always swore we'd not be like them, but it's 'ard when you keep seeing all the sideways looks, 'earing the whispers. 'Watch out for 'im; you know what 'is old man's like', 'Apple don't fall far from the tree', 'like father, like son', 'sins of the father', all that sort of thing, well, you wonder just 'ow much of a chance you 'ave to be something different. Still, 'enry and me, we swore we would be different, wouldn't let the drink lead us to 'urt someone, wouldn't raise our fists to those we cared for. Course sometimes we'd wonder just 'ow bloody much either of the old twisters really cared about anyone, you know. Made it seem maybe best NOT to care about anyone, not if it put em at risk, not if it set yourself up in turn."

Peter inhaled deeply, swallowed the last from the bottle and sat it on the step beside him, reaching for another cigarette, his third since they'd been perched in this spot at the top of the steps in front of this abandoned building. His hand came away from his pocket empty, though, and his head dropped forward onto his chest. She whined gently, leaning farther into his legs; she'd gradually gotten closer and closer, him allowing her to do so, allowing her to get close where he wouldn't have allowed another person. She heard his breath catch in his throat.

"Guess you can't run away from all that, no matter 'ow you try. Just 'eard, the other day; doubt Maudie knows. Moved away awhile back, so isn't on the streets yet; I was to be the one to tell 'er and the others, just couldn't get the words together. Lost 'is job, 'enry did, no fault of 'is own, just place not doing so well; lots were let go. Took to the drink, 'e did, got way aboveboard, and when 'is girl took exception . . ."

He leaned his head back now, and the wet streaks down his face shone in the moonlight. "Come to 'is senses, found 'er, saw w'at 'e'd done. Sent a message rount to the bobbies; by the time they got there, 'e'd fixed a rope to the rafters and already . . ."

His shoulders were shaking now, his hands having been doing that for some time. "Can't run away from all that, 'like father, like son,'; better to get it over and done afore someone gets 'urt," and she couldn't stand it anymore. She'd have given anything to be in her own shape, to have arms to wrap around him, words to comfort him, but she knew he wouldn't have allowed that anyway, so she did what she could. She was up and beside him now, whining urgently, leaning into him, across him, rubbing her shoulder into his chest, her head into his neck, using her tongue to wipe away the tears. And his arms came up and around her, holding her tight against him, and they sat there, her fur absorbing the remainder of his tears, sharing sadness, and grief, and whatever comfort she could offer. Sometimes, in later years, when she wondered at just what moment he became hers, she became his, she wondered if it hadn't been in that dark alley when he gripped her so tight, and she licked away his tears, and tried to pour all the caring she felt into him, tried to take away as much of the sorrow and despair as she could.

And while she scented the predators in the night, her presence was enough to give them pause, and by the time he was ready to leave, to head home, the dawn was coming, and the alleys becoming just a trifle safer for travel. She paced at his side, and at the doorway took her leave, though it was with some reluctance on both their parts.

He woke in the late morning, remembering what had been in his mind, what he'd gone out searching for, shaking his head in rueful surprise at still being alive after doing something that foolish. And he remembered her. "Guardian angel in the shape of a big red dog! Blimy, Peter, next yer gonna be imagining big white rabbits comin to sit on the end of yer bed and talk you outta yer troubles," snorting with disgust at himself.

It wasn't til he was getting dressed, picking up his clothes from the floor where he'd dropped them in the wee hours, that he found them, the coarse red hairs clinging to his pants and shirt and jacket, in places almost ground into the weave of the fabric. He touched them, pulled some off and touched the small mass in his hand. "Bloody 'ell!" And somehow, today, he wasn't quite so ready to just "get it over and done before someone gets 'urt". Maybe he'd win out. No, Henry hadn't, but maybe he could. With a little help from his friends. Including a big red dog.

***

He asked around, casually, not bringing too much attention, knowing there were those who'd have a quick solution to a big animal running loose in the alleys. But no one had seen anything, except for a couple of those not likely to say anything, them being predators themselves, and not up to any good when they'd spotted the beast. It was Maude who asked him, "what's this about a dog? I 'eard you asking Mari. We don't 'ave many around 'ere; costs too much to feed one. Old Mrs. Lukens 'as that pug, the one 'er employer gave 'er, but she gets scraps and a few extra farthings from the old man everytime she goes in to do for 'im, otherwise she wouldn't be able to afford it."

Peter snorted a bit; whatever it was in the alley, it sure as bloody hell wasn't a pug!

"A few cats, including Bess, acourse; we'd be eaten up with the vermin if not," she continued. And he looked at the older woman who'd served as a sort of substitute for his mother for more than half his life, and he lit a cigarette and slowly, cautiously told her about that night, that night and Henry. Somehow, it seemed not quite so impossible to talk about Henry now; that first conversation at the top of those broken steps in the moonlight had broken the barrier. Maude reached out and smoothed the dark hair back off his forehead.

"Peter, you're stronger than 'e was; I'm not saying better," at the look of offense on the young man's face at the perceived slight on his old friend, "just, stronger. Lad, you're not 'enry; your father, 'e 'urt you, more than a little, I know that; a right bloody bastard 'e was, and I know it quite well. But 'enry's father, 'e broke something in that lad." And she told him things he'd never known about his friend and his life and the things, the choices his friend's father had forced on him, and he understood more. "And 'is girl? Well, Lizzie knew some of that, and she used it, more than once, like a whip, when 'e'd get 'er mad. Used the threat of telling some of that to get 'er own way with 'im when they 'ad a disagreement. Didn't love 'im, no, but let 'im provide for 'er; gave 'im plenty of grief, chatting up other lads and lying and such. Not that it was right, what 'appened, but she was no innocent in this, either, laddie."

But still, the fear was there, and they both knew it. "Peter, you're not 'enry. And more important, you're not your father, either." She laid her hand on his, "you've friends, you know; talk to us, we'll listen. Sometimes, that's what's needed. Sometimes it's a slap upside the 'ead what's needed, and we'll be glad to provide that as well," and he gave her a reluctant chuckle, knowing she and Marisol certainly had done so in the past when they'd thought it to be warranted. "And who knows, mayhap it'll show up again to listen when you need it to, your big red dog."

He gave her just a bit of a wry smile, knowing she wasn't sure she really believed in the big red dog, knowing he wouldn't have if he hadn't found the fur. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in a handkerchief, "you still do that weaving thing you used to do, Maudie? Can you do something with this, maybe? As a keepsake?" he asked, and she looked at what he held in the palm of his hand, all he'd collected.

She reached out and gathered the bundle into her own fingers, "Aye, laddie, I can do something for you," thinking with some reluctant amusement, {"and if there's not enough 'ere, I can add the bit I swept up from the lassie's room, near 'er window, and off the inside of that black cloak a 'ers!"}

She thought of the extremely odd things she'd been told about the Clan, things she'd been warned of when she'd agreed to this mentoring, things she'd thought to be just old tales meant to enhance their mystic, and shook her head at the pictures that formed in her mind from Peter's description of his night. And she got some amusement from the startled, rapidly blinking eyes of the girl when she invited her to a lesson in hair-weaving, and brought out that mound of coarse red hair. Slowly those brown gold eyes were raised to meet the older ones. She waited for Maude to say, well, something. But when she considered, exactly what could Maude say? Caution her not to change into a red wolf and go prowling the alleys defending Peter? She felt a small rueful smile coming to her face, and watched as one remarkably similar came to the lips of her mentor, who sat there shaking her head, and eventually both of them gave a deep sigh.

The girl had reached up and snagged a couple of the long dark red hairs from her own head, "add these in too, shall we, Maudie? He needs all the help he can get," with a half-smile. Neither of them would talk of this, probably; but Caeide thought she might not be in for quite so much of a scold if Maude caught her sneaking in that window some night, clad only in a cloak. And she'd continue to do that, as needed; she'd thought about staying with Peter that night, curling up on the rug beside his bed to watch over him. But she knew that sometimes her body would make the shift back, on its own, while she slept, and somehow she thought him waking up to a naked Caeide sleeping on his floor might just send the young man totally over the edge! He seemed the skittish sort, a bit conservative even. Nor did she think he'd accept a truthful explanation!


	4. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein an all-night poker game leads to a revelation.

{"This is all Maude's fault! She could have given me at least a warning, let me be prepared, have my guard up! She had to have known!"}

Actually, Maude hadn't known, or at least she hadn't thought about it enough to have realized the danger. She was tired, she was; it had been a long and difficult day, she was just getting over a nasty cold, and all she wanted was a few hours precious sleep. But here it was almost two o'clock in the morning and she was just now seeking out her bed, and there were the lads downstairs at one of Peter's all night poker games. In just another three hours they'd be expecting their coffee, that what signaled it was time to wrap up the last hand, get their belongings and have a start to their day. She'd been so grateful when Caeidi had poked her head out of her little room, saying, "I'll take care of the lads' coffee, Maude, and the cleanup. You sleep as long as you're able!" She'd not thought about anything else, just pulled herself into her bed, and let herself fall into a deep sleep. 

Still, something woke her just a few hours later, a sense of something amiss in her realm, and she quickly dressed and made her way downstairs. From the voices, the lads were finishing up, laughing, comparing notes on what each had planned for the day, so all was well there. When she made her way into the kitchen, however, she saw Caeide, sitting at the table, looking for all the world as if she was practicing for childbed, breathing in, breathing out, breathing in, breathing out, slow, deliberate, forced. "Child, whatever is the matter?" she said with a frown. The girl looked alright, no bruises, no blood, nothing wrong to the eye. This wasn't someone who took alarm easily, no one knew that better than Maude. She'd seen the girl kill one man who was threatening Maude, and she knew from Peter and Marisol that she had put an end to the other three as well. Still, it was obvious she was shaken, alarmed, tightly trying to control herself.

With a fierce glare at the older woman she was so fond of, Caeide snapped, "You could have told me he was a bloody menace, you know! No, I had to walk in there unaware and find it out for myself, I did!"

Wondering if the girl had gotten into the heavy liquor accidentally, Maude looked at her appraisingly, frowned, and then walked to the doorway to look into the pub proper. No problem there that she could see, to have her so upset, just Peter and the lads . . . Oh. Well, yes, she could see that that would be a bit of a shock to the girl. Peter, during the hours he spent with the girl, had shown her that he had many sides to him, but this, this was one she'd not have seen before, one he probably wasn't even aware of, wouldn't have realized the impact of, and if he had been, would have taken care that she NOT see. Maude shook her head with a rueful sigh.

He sat at the round table, his work shirt discarded as the heat built in the room, a cutaway undershirt showing rather more of his body than a regular one might have, dark curling hair showing that wouldn't have had he been dressed as she usually saw him. His eyelids were heavy from lack of sleep and the thick smoke, his dark brown-black hair hanging over his forehead, long sideburns accenting his cheekbones and firm jawline. The long graceful line of his neck flowed to his well shaped shoulders. His mouth was a bit sulky, as usual when he was tired or ill or just plain annoyed. And she knew, if he spoke, his voice would be deep and raspy; it always was this time of the morning. Maude could easily see him looking much the same after a night of passion, and she imagined the effects on a susceptible and unwary onlooker could be a bit unsettling. 

{"Oh, dear, yes, I can see where she might be a trifle upset. Though I'm not sure upset is the right word. I do know that he's made her year here a bit more difficult. It's going to be harder on her, what with needing to perfect that 'I'm just a harmless youngster, don't bother with me' act while he's got her blood burning, and that's exactly what's happened, I'll bet on that. I know her people, and I know that at her age, at thirteen, she's a woman grown. Her mother married at fourteen, had her first babe before the year was over, and added another every year or two so after that for awhile. Well, it'll be interesting to see how she handles this, to be sure! If Peter was Clan bred, or even well acquainted with the Clan, I'd think this a good match, even now, though they'd have to stay on Clan property, the laws being what they are here. But he's not, he looks at thirteen as a child, with him being twenty-five, so only time will tell if they've a future. I wouldn't mind seeing them end up together though; I think she'd do well for him."}

Maude walked back into the kitchen, "Well, yes, I didn't think about that, and I'm truly sorry. I see him as a son, really, and I forgot how you'd be likely to see him. The question is, can you work with him? You can spend the rest of this year avoiding him, missing out on what you could learn, missing out on the experience, or you could stick with it, and just try to enjoy the view. It's your choice, but I know which I'd choose."

In the end, Caeide decided Maude had the right of it, and she dealt with, aye, even looked forward to bringing the coffee for the all night poker games for the remainder of the year.


	5. Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a simple job of work turns into a major crisis, Maude and Marisol and Caeide are hard-pressed to deal with an injured Peter Newkirk. Yes, he's just as difficult to deal when ill as LeBeau always claimed!

.  
Caeide looked back on her first six months in London with satisfaction. She'd learned so much, had developed new and interesting skills, and felt she had found a second family with her trio of mentors. From Maude she was learning more herbcraft to add to that taught her by her family, the ins and outs of running a pub, how to keep the books (multiple sets, at that), brewing, weaving, how to manage and deal with the many different types of personalities her clientele brought to her door, how to weather all that life could throw at you and still come out ahead.

Marisol was her teacher for the female lay, how to dress to blend in to different environments, how to change your apparent age from youngster to old hag (or old man, for that matter), how to size up a mark, how to entice with a smile and a tilt of the head, how to give just enough but no more to get the information or item she needed, how to always locate at least two exit paths before starting the con, how to gauge when a man might just be annoyed at being set up versus when he'd be outright dangerous, how to deal with a con when it went all pear shaped, and much more.

Marisol only taught her and allowed her to practice certain of her skills when they were well out of sight of her third mentor; frankly, he disapproved of what Marisol was teaching her. Not that he didn't consider it valuable, or failed to acknowledge that Marisol was, at thirty, a prime hand at it. But Peter couldn't find his way to get past the calendar; to his mind, thirteen years old was thirteen years old. In fact, he repeated that to himself on almost a daily basis, seeming to need to make sure he had a firm grasp on that fact. No matter that her Clan considered her an adult, that she'd gone on her quest at age eight and received her Clan name, nor that after this year of internship, she'd be ready to go out into the field to work for the Clan or whoever they might form Contract with. No matter that the first time they'd met she'd just killed two men and was in the process of killing two more.

No, thirteen was thirteen, and that meant she was a still more a child than a woman, and therefore much of what Marisol was teaching her was unsuitable, and he had no hesitation making his opinion known. He focused on seeing her as a child, and he needed all the help he could get with that, not Marisol muddling up things. From Peter she was learning how to tickle a deck of cards, pick any pocket around, open the more basic of safes, a bit of practice in forgery, and how to blend in to a crowd for protection. She was learning more, too, from him, though not thru lessons he deliberately taught her; how to take a bad deal in life and make the best of it, how to turn fear into determination, how to build a mask to cover what you don't want others to see; not a paper and cloth mask, but that trick of deciding who you were supposed to be, and projecting that, without flaw, til that was all the observer would see. She also had learned from him, inadvertently, that she was indeed a woman, with all a woman's instincts and desires, she thought ruefully. Due to him, she'd become better acquainted with patience, acceptance, and, she'd admit to herself, a certain wistful sadness. She was going to end this Internship Year so much richer in knowledge, and a great deal of that knowledge about herself.

The morning of the crisis seemed much like any other, except Peter had told her she was to work with Maude that day; he was doing a job of work with some of the lads over at an East End warehouse, and wouldn't be available for her scheduled lessons. He stood in for some teasing from Maude, since a last minute piece of honest work could only mean he was, once again, short of ready money. He laughingly admitted it, "I've enuf for the usual, but I've finally made some 'eadway with that little blond over at The Boar; we're meeting up there tonight, figured some extra ready would come in 'andy." That let him in for some more teasing.

Caeide wondered absently if she'd ever seen the blonde he was talking about; she and Marisol had had a few sessions there, and Caeide remembered a rather brash full-bodied blonde barmaid, but also a small slender young blond man with an engaging smile, taking part in a poker game. Either seemed likely, she thought; he seemed to be attracted to the overblown type in females, and to the understated types in the blokes, though blondes did seem to be his favorites whichever. Though Peter was always very careful to try and maintain his image of only fancying the ladies, her own family had wide enough tastes that she could easily see that his own tastes were rather more expansive. Sweet Mother, the Clan had relationship variations within their culture these Outlanders probably would never even think of, she smiled to herself. Well enough, can't see what it should matter, though some seem to make a big fuss as if it should. Just so long as he was careful not to make trouble for himself, that's all she cared about.

***

She never gave him a thought throughout the day, well, no more than she would any other day. There were things she saw that she made note to ask him about, of course, an amusing conversation with one of the locals that she thought to regale him with at the next opportunity, but nothing special. It was only during the late afternoon that she became uneasy for some reason, not being able to focus on what Maude was telling her, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting to see a familiar figure standing there. She tried to focus her concentration on her lessons, only partly succeeding to Maude's exasperation, but it was only in the early evening, when a loud angry familiar-looking blonde woman marched into the pub looking for him, that she finally took heed of what she'd sensed all along.

"And just where is 'e? After me for weeks, 'e's been, then when it's all set to 'ave a drink together, 'e don't bother to show up. I ain't gonna stand for it, I'll tell you that, and you can just march 'im out 'ere and I'll tell 'im a good thing or three!"

She was ignored by some of the crowd, urged on gleefully by others, but she and Maude exchanged puzzled, slightly worried looks. Making her way over to Maude, she asked quietly, "Is this something he'd be likely to do, maybe have something, someone more enticing come his way and him change his plans?" not really thinking it of him, but Maude had known him for many years and would have more experience as to that.

"No, he's always a one for playing the game fair; he'd just make plans with the other one for another time," murmured Maude in return. Looking at the clock, noting the hour, Caeide grabbed up her jacket, "I'm going to take a fast run to his flat, see if he's there," and moved out the back of the room, Maude nodding her agreement. {"No, the boy doesn't like to be mother hen'd, but he does have a tendency to walk into trouble; might be the lass can get away with checking on him without him throwing a right fit like he'd do if I tried it."}

Finding his flat empty, (after his training, she'd had no problem getting in) with no sign he'd returned since that morning, she hurried back to the pub. Knowing what she was going to do, she quickly moved up the stairs to her own room, getting her cap, second knife and sheath, along with her small pistol and extra ammunition. {"Not likely to need it, and he's bound to laugh and scold if he finds out I'm outfitted like I'm going into battle, but my own training says not to venture out without being prepared. Not to mention what he's going to say about me checking up on him in the first place!"}

Inside the pub proper, she sidled up to Maude. "No sign. Where was he working today, do you know?" Later Maude couldn't decide if it was her worry over the young man she cared for like a son, or if it was the air of quiet competence displayed by the girl that led her to reply, "Yes, Schmele's warehouse, not too far," giving her the location and directions, "shouldn't have been any trouble, just an unloading and transfer job, probably even on the up-and-up." If Maude had any hesitation telling the youngster, any hesitation about letting her go out into the night alone in this very dangerous neighborhood, she never showed it.

Caeide thought for a moment; Marisol wasn't in tonight, so no one would be looking for her, she knew; no one would even realize she was gone, except for Maude. If all was well and they were overreacting, Peter would never know she'd backtracked him; Maude wouldn't tell. With a nod passing between them, Caeide slipped out the rear of the pub, heading thru the back alleys. 

**

Peter was thoroughly disgusted with the day. First, though it had started warm and sunny, the weather had quickly turned and the warehouse was cold and damp. Lord, how he hated being cold; too many memories, there. Then, when the job was close to done, the rope on that pulley had slipped while they were unloading one of the heavy crates; the crate had slammed into his rib cage, pushing him off the ramp and back into the solid wooden divider behind him. Caught between the two, he felt his ribs go, front and back, as the air was driven out of his lungs, and he'd banged the back of his head in a right nasty way, too. If he'd had sense, he thought to himself, he'd have called it a day and gone to have Maude bandage him up; but no, he knew that Schmele was a right bastard where such was concerned. You started a job and finished it if you wanted to get paid; you didn't finish, even if by a few minutes, letting the others finish it up, you didn't get paid; simple as that. Wasn't like Schmele even shared out that portion amongst the others; he just kept it as his due. Surely they'd get this lot done in another half hour, then he'd be on his way. No, couldn't see giving up the ready and ending up with nothing, not after all this day had put him through. He brought himself upright, laughing as the others asked about him; he didn't know any of this lot very well, best not to show any weakness. You never showed weakness, not in the East End, it wasn't healthy.

He finished, though he was pale and not breathing right by the time Schmele handed over the cash. To make matters worse, now it was raining hard; great, now not only was he cold and hurting, now he was soaking wet. As he worked his way down the alleys, he thought about his date tonight, {"Sorry, ducks; going to have to disappoint you."} He intended to stop in at The Boar to let her know, though; hopefully she'd not get all nattery about it, she was a right looker, and he'd spent a lot of time chatting her up to this point, but right now he just wanted to get home. Deep puddles were forming in the uneven ground below his feet, and he seemed to be having trouble seeing clearly.

No, he realized when he stumbled one more time, he was just going to have to let her get angry; he knew by now it'd take all he had just to make it to his flat, without making any stops along the way. And, he was starting to see shadows off to his left; he didn't think it was his imagination or his failing vision - he was getting that feeling he got when things were going to get all pear-shaped. Maybe it was one of the blokes from the warehouse, thinking he was an easy victim after the accident, knowing he'd money in his pocket, maybe one of the scavengers who wandered this part of town had seen his uneven steps. Either way, he was in trouble, and he moved closer to the buildings to his right, trying to hurry, trying to remember if there was anyplace that might provide a good place to stand his ground.

***

Caeide swiftly made her way thru the rain, {"why did it have to be raining!"}, moving over the route Peter should have taken coming from the warehouse. She planned to make her way all the way to the warehouse, if necessary, and see what she could learn there. She was only two short blocks from the pub when she saw him, staggering, weaving his way through the deep shadows. He'd not be drunk, she knew; he never let himself get drunk except in private. Maude had told her that his father had been a mean drunk, a brawler, not afraid to raise his fists to anyone, including his wife and children. "Seems like he's afraid to trust himself not to do the same, though I can't see it myself; boy's just not got it in him," she'd confided in an early sitdown, after Peter had shown up with a monumental hangover from a private drinking session in his flat. "He'll tip a pint or two with the lads, share a drink with someone likely, but never gets aboveboard lest he's alone. Course, he does that a mite more than's good for him; we all have demons, he has maybe a few more than most. The black dog visits him more often than I'm comfortable with, to be sure."

She hastened to reach him, when she saw two figures dash from across the alley, barreling into him, sending him face down into a deep puddle. She saw the cosh in an upraised hand, and knife in another, and she threw her lighter blade, knowing by the pained screech that she'd made contact, and gave a deliberately hoarse shout. With pistol in hand now, she dashed to his side, pulling Peter over onto his back as she landed on her knees. A man could drown in water more shallow than that puddle!

The two attackers had given way, once they knew help had arrived; neither were the rough bully boys that'd stand their ground, more like hyenas that would only attack defenseless prey. She was dressed in boy's clothes and cap, as always except when working with Marisol, and they would have seen her pistol in hand; they'd have no way of knowing she was a woman; they'd not have been so quick to run if they'd known. Yes, she'd still have beaten them, but they would have put up more of a fight, and would have taken time she was glad she didn't have to spend on them.

Keeping her pistol at the ready, she quickly surveyed the man at her side; he was conscious, but seemed dazed and confused. In the dark of the alley, and with him soaked from the rain and the puddle, she couldn't tell if the knife had made contact. She urged him to his feet, getting him propped against the building beside them, and shoving her shoulder under his arm and wrapping her arm around her waist, guided him through the slackened rain toward the pub, keeping her pistol in her other hand.

Instinctively she took him inside, not even considering trying to get him to his flat, supporting him as they made their precarious way up the narrow back staircase to her room. She lowered him carefully into the armchair, checking for a knife wound, and found it, a slash across the front of his shoulder and arm, but not too dangerous for now, and dashed back to latch and bar the rear door; Maude never locked it during pub hours, but tonight an exception was going to be made; she hadn't the time to deal with worrying about any surprise attack.

Moving to the open doorway into the pub proper, she motioned to Maude to join her; Caeide quickly brought her up to date, asking her to come up when she was free, and if she saw Marisol to send her in as well. Caeide was out of her depth, she felt, and would welcome any help these two friends could give. Filling a flask from the kettle of hot tea (it'd be rightly stewed by now, but it was hot and available), and grabbing a mug and a few sugar lumps, as well as another kettle of hot water, she hurried back upstairs. 

He was still huddled in the chair, which had to be soaked now from his wet clothes, breathing hard, starting to sound raspy. First order of business had to be to get him dry and warm, tend the gash, and check to see what other hurt he'd suffered. She had no way of knowing how long it would be til Maude could get free from the bar, she could hardly leave it untended, and it was unthinkable to wait; he needed help now. {"Towels from the hall closet,"} she thought, {"Maude still has some of her brother's clothing in that chest in her room, I think; maybe a night shirt in there, or something that'd do the job. Bandages and such from the kit in the hall as well."}

Leaving him in the chair for the moment, she made a fast excursion and returned. She got him to take a few sips of the sugared tea while it was still hot. "How long 'as that been sitting?" he had the wherewithal to complain; stewed tea was one of his many dislikes, a right picky one, he was, about food and drink alike.

"Doesn't matter, drink it down, slowly now," she ordered, not realizing her voice had slipped from the usual bright, eager young voice she usually affected when with him, to her normal deeper, slightly husky one. {"Come to think of it, haven't used that ever-so-chirpy voice since this all started tonight. So much for maintaining the mask under stress,"} she noted ruefully. Stress was one thing, she was finding; Peter, in danger, hurt, that was something else; for that, the rules changed. She stirred up the fireplace, to get the room warmer, and using the metal bedwarmer from the corner, took the chill from the sheets and pulled the covers back in place to retain the warmth. She'd grabbed another couple of woolen blankets from the hall closet while she was searching for the towels, and spread one of those on the bed as well, keeping the other with her.

Not waiting for Maude, and him being too disoriented now to make any protest, she got him stripped and dried, {"just like dealing with one of my brothers after they'd gotten toplofty at the pub back home,"} she lied to herself firmly, though not too successfully, and temporarily wrapped him in one of the blankets. After cleaning the knife wound, and applying sulfa and a light bandage, she helped him to the side of the bed and got him dressed in the warm oversized flannel shirt she'd found; {"not a nightshirt, but that'd probably just get in the way of checking to see where he's hurt. Lucky Maude's brother was such a big man; Peter is so thin, this fits loosely enough to be easy on him."} Quite a challenge, to be just enough aware of his body to do what needed to be done for him, but not too aware; she realized, with a shake of her head, she'd failed that challenge miserably; she'd been all too aware of his long rangy body, and somehow her thought of 'how beautiful he is!' seemed to point to her taking at least SOME notice.

She got him settled, but realized he was having more trouble breathing; there were no extra pillows to be had, but she pulled the hard back cushion off the settee in Marisol's room and used that as a prop for the two pillows already in use. She'd turned up the lamp, after drawing the blinds and curtains tightly across the one window, and checked his eyes. "Yes, could be a concussion, though his pupils don't look too far off," she was muttering to herself as Maude hurried through the door.

Maude paused, eyebrows raised, as she took in the lurid scene; sodden clothes laying in a heap beside crumpled towels, basin with bloody water and bloodsoaked cloths, remains of the unused sulfa and bandages, pistol on the nightstand along with a mug of tea, Peter dressed in what she remembered as being one of Bert's favorite shirts, hair damp and hanging over his forehead, propped up tall in the narrow bed, the girl leaning over him, hand cupping his chin, stark, intense look on her face.

"Well, looks like he walked into trouble again, right enough," she sighed aloud. {"Looks like she's done right well so far, but from the look on her face, she'll be glad of some help."}

Caedi was still dressed in her wet clothes, hair dripping down from her braid in the back, but didn't seem to notice any of that. "Go get out of those wet things, then come back and we'll see what we have here." Caeidi rose and grabbed fresh clothes out of the clothespress against the wall, and as an afterthought, picked up Peter's wet clothes and towels and the other things as she made her way into Maude's room. Only a few minutes had passed before she returned; she was in dry clothes, and she'd taken the time to blot the water from her hair, but no more than that, other than hurriedly taking care of the debris.

"What do we do now, Maude? Has he told you what happened, where he's hurt, other than the knife wound? He has to be, he was staggering before those two scavengers tried to take him, unless they'd made a move before. Oh, and he landed face down in a puddle, probably inhaled some of that foul stew from the alley before I got him turned over."

Peter had roused enough now to figure out where he was, at least, that he was at Maudie's, though he didn't have any clear idea how he'd gotten there. He responded to her questions haltingly, "accident at the warehouse; slammed the back of me 'ead, and 'ad a bloody big crate bang into me ribs; 'urt me back at the same time, I think." His eyes squinted almost shut with pain, {"Was that Caeide? Looked like 'er, but that voice, it don't sound right at all."}

Now he was starting to remember, remembered that voice, from the alley, from the one who'd taken his part over the scavengers, but surely it hadn't been the girl! She'd never have been out there alone at night in the first place, and she never could have managed to get him back here, could she? He remembered that one tending him, though, gentle competent hands getting him undressed and dried off and into bed; no, absolutely not, he refused to believe the girl had done all that! No, he'd just put that out of his mind; it had NOT happened!

Maude quickly examined him, checking his head, chest and ribs, running her hands gently around to his back. "Concussion, I think; a couple of broken ribs at the front, maybe a couple more cracked at the rear; bruising, of course. And his lungs have never been so good, so hurting his ribs, breathing in that muck, and getting soaked aren't to the good, that's for sure." 

The only doctor she knew in the neighborhood was worse than useless, especially at this time of night when he'd have lifted a few pints; no sense even thinking about bringing anyone in from the outside; she'd no idea who that would be, and they wouldn't come into the East End anyway. About that time she heard Marisol come in, and sent Caeidi to fetch her. Together they'd do what had to be done, first, move his ribs back into position, wrap them well. Then, aspirin for the inevitable fever, washed down with a bit more of the truly awful tea, and let him rest for tonight. They'd take turns tonight, keeping watch over him, and see what else could be done in the light of day.

***

After spending a falsely reassuring calm night, Peter slipped in to a restless fevered state. He went from fretful to annoyed to angrily defiant. No, he wouldn't drink any more tea; yes, he would get up; they could bloody well just get their hands off them, who did they think they were anyway? He was nigh on to sobbing in his frustration with them. Maude knew he'd always been a dreadful patient when ill, but he was really outdoing himself this time, and was doing himself harm.

They had the doctor in, but as Maude had predicted he was of little use; Caeide was for bringing in an outside doctor, but Maude and Marisol explained that no one was going to come to the East End, not for any amount of money they could raise, and that even if someone would come, the treatment given would probably be worthless considering how their like was viewed by the toffs. Maude was vaguely uneasy at the suggestion by the girl that she rather thought she could provide enough 'encouragement' to get a doctor to cooperate; that look in the youngster's eyes was grim and determined, and Maude thought they'd enough trouble without the girl being brought up on charges! No, they'd have to make do with what they could provide; the big problem, so far at least, was getting the great lug to cooperate with them. So far, he hadn't asked about how he got here, who'd first tended him, undressed him, and they would just as soon he didn't; with all the fuss he was making about them tending him now, to learn Caeide had been the one to pull him in from those scavengers and get him dried off and into a warm bed would have just set him off again. Great stubborn, prideful lug, indeed!

On the third day, the congestion set in firmly; even sitting straight up he could hardly draw a breath, and the dry, unproductive cough exhausted him and kept him from getting any rest. The fever remained high with no respite. Maude had gone thru what cures she knew, but this time they weren't working. Caeide remembered what she'd learned in her training; she knew which herbs, which tonics should help, but she was far from home and the Clan storehouses. Would she even be able to find the ingredients here in London?

Telling Maude what she intended, she left Peter to her and Marisol, searching out the places where what she sought might be found. Some of the ingredients were fairly common, some quite rare in the city; it took her most of the day, into the evening, and practically all of her emergency cash, a considerable amount in all (she'd have to contact the family for more funds) to gather it all together. Hurrying home, she dropped all her packages in the pub kitchen, and dashed upstairs to find Marisol fighting with Peter about once again getting down some liquids. He'd probably fight her on her medicines too, Caeide knew; {"guess what, Peter my love, you'll not win that fight, I assure you!"} If she'd been listening closely to her own thoughts, she'd have been appalled at how she addressed him. 

Maude was tending the bar; Caeide let her know she was home, and intended to brew the first batch of what would be a series of three separate tonics. The first would fight the fever and congestion; she'd continue with that one til that battle was won, then go on to the others, one to let him sleep and heal, one to build his strength. Crushing the herbs, steeping them in boiling water, mixing, pressing, straining - finally she got enough for three good doses. She'd mix more tomorrow, but this particular recipe worked best if used within a few hours, so she only made enough to last through til morning. Quickly she went back upstairs, to find Marisol sputtering, frustrated, soaked with the remains of the glass of sugared water she'd been trying to get him to drink, him not being able to keep down food of any sort. Maude followed closely. Caeide shook her head; Sweet Mother, he was a stubborn one, this lad of hers! 

She approached the bed, and his hot fevered eyes met hers. "Wanted you earlier, but you'd gone for a nice little stroll" he sneered, "well, don't need you now, just take yourself off! And don't think you're gonna start with me now, like these others!"

"No, not at all. We'll leave you to settle down to rest, just once you take a tiny glass of this medicine."

He started raging at her, at all of them, his voice hoarse and cracking, his cheeks mottled red, the rest of his face going dead pale. Finally, she'd had enough; the dear fool was going to exhaust himself fighting them!

"You lot can just stop telling me what to do! Bloody well 'ad enough! Bloody interfering females!"

Caeide moved to the side of the bed, the small glass firmly in her hand so he couldn't knock it away in his frustration, her voice starting fairly quiet, but getting increasingly louder, deep, husky, definitely not in her chirpy voice now. "Now just you look, Peter me lad, when you are well enough to get back to your precious poker games, and well enough to do a day's work, and well enough to chase after some likely lad or lassie" (which garnered her startled looks from Maude and Marisol, who'd been unaware she knew exactly what Peter's tastes ran to, though they certainly did), "then you can have a say in what you will and won't do. Till then, you'll damn well do as I tell you. You'll drink down whatever I give you to drink, eat whatever I say you eat, rest when I tell you to! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME??"

The other two women looked on in amazement as their obstreperous friend scowled like a petulant child and heaved a sound almost like a strangled sob, then muttered, "well, if you're going to get all bloody pissy about it!" and drank down the liquid she thrust toward him, and dropped back onto the heaped pillows. They couldn't help it, as worried about him as they were, they still started laughing at the sulky mouth pouting at the necessity for taking orders from some one else, especially a snippy girl.

***

 

.  
It was a longer, rougher battle than any of them liked, with the worst being the lung infection from inhaling the contaminated water from the alley. Even after Caeide was able to obtain some of the still-rare penicillin thru her family, it was not an easy road. Maude had the pub to run, which took nearly all her time; Marisol had her own work to do, though she helped as much as she could. The majority of his care by necessity fell to Caeide; not that she'd ever had any leanings toward becoming a nurse, the three weeks tending Peter reinforced that in her mind. Stubborn, willful, he was; only because he was so dear to her had she refrained from smacking him on the top of his head more than once; {"surely that's not something a proper nurse should be considering!"}

Sometimes he was rational and it was easy to care for him, and they had quiet talks, and she treasured those times; mostly though, he went from whiny to angry to belligerent to depressed, and back to whiny again. On the whole, she'd decided she could take any of those better than the depression; then, it seemed as if his very essence, that stubborn will to survive, to endure, just seemed to fade away, and it frightened her more than she could say. She had the feeling that if she left him alone, even turned aside her eyes, he might just slip away and be gone forever, unable to pull himself back from whatever dark pit he'd ended up in. On more than on occasion she'd thought to herself, {"if he were mine, I'd spend a goodly bit time and effort making sure he stayed healthy and contented, just to be able to avoid this!"} Then, she'd ruefully smile to herself, and admit that it was hardly likely to be something she'd be in a position to have to worry about. As troublesome as the man was, surely that wasn't something she should be regretting, was it now?

Sometimes, when the fever came back and he couldn't sleep and would get fretful, he'd ask her to sing, and she'd bring out the guitar she always traveled with and sing some of the old songs she'd been brought up with. Most were Celtic, some few she had English words for, but not so many. He'd asked for translations more than once, but mostly she'd put him off with the excuse, "That one just doesn't translate well to English, the meaning gets all lost." She'd tease him, "There are just certain things that can be said in a more fluent tongue that your language just doesn't have the proper words for."

Sometimes she sang with the bright young voice she affected around him and the others, but when she was very tired, or it was late at night with no one else to hear or see, and it was only the two of them, she found herself going back to her own lower, slightly husky voice. Mostly what she sang were the old love songs, with an occasional lullaby. {"Well, what else are there? Any people, you look at their music, you have love songs, songs about war and death, songs sung to the wee ones; that's the most of it, that's what life is."} So she sang Siuil A Run, and Coinleach Glas an Fhomhair, and the one she could do in his own language, The Water is Wide, though with the last she had to pick and choose the verses; there were some verses that translated soft and gentle, conducive to sleep; some that translated coarse and vulgar in English, though they weren't meant to be that way.

He complained that so many of the songs she'd sing were 'bloody Irish, bloody Scots, not English!', and she'd snap back at him, in a mockery of his own broad Cockney, 'well, and I'm not bloody English, now am I?' though she'd make a special effort to remember some of the old English ones she'd learned, but those were mostly songs about pirates or about serving maids unkindly used by the lords, or other things she wasn't as fond of.

She wasn't English, she wasn't Irish or Scots either, though she had a goodly part of those cultures in her heritage, of course; she was of Clan O'Donnell, Shantai, a people of their own, partaking of many different cultures through marriage, but always maintain the old ways, the old laws and values. Once she told him that it should be obvious she wasn't Irish; that if her Clan had been totally Irish and dwelt on Irish soil, Ireland would be free and united and John Bull would never have raised his flag on the isle! And certainly she wasn't Scots, for if the Clan had been so, he'd not need to ask for translation, for wouldn't all of what he called England be speaking the same tongue? It took a full day before he recovered from that enough to start speaking to her again, she remembered with amusement. 

Soon, however, he had recovered enough to go back to his own flat and his old routine. She told herself firmly she was, of course, glad that he was well again, glad to have her room back to herself, glad to be able to sleep in her own bed rather on a pallet on the floor. At least the first of those three things were true, anyway, and the last of the three was at least partially true; that was enough truth for now.

Knowledge had been forced on her, though, knowledge both bitter and sweet, and she was quieter than before, and woke from her sleep many a time with her pillows damp with tears, though she couldn't remember the dreams that had brought the tears.


	6. The Brangle Street Lads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What gets off to a rough start ends in a mutually advantageous alliance. A brief appearance by Goniff, from Garrison's Gorillas. Well, and that makes perfect sense - they were about the same age, in the same line of work, came from the same rough East End. In fact, I rather think he might have been that 'slender blond' dealing cards at The Bull, the one Caeide thought Peter just might fancy.

Peter was discussing his need for a strong cup of tea with Maude and Marisol, both of whom declared themselves too busy with their work to stop and play housemaid for him. Cajoling them hadn't worked, nor had whining. He had just moved up to putting on that winsome smile that would make them sigh and give in, but was stopped by the pub door being pushed open and the entrance of the most bedraggled and disheveled sight he'd seen in some time. The three looked at the newcomer, up and down, taking in the mud and other possibly best undeclared substances caking the clothes and face and hair, the traces of blood here and there, and the look of determined satisfaction on that face.

"'Ad a bit of a mishap, did you now?" Peter asked struggling to keep a straight face, earning himself a rather impressive snarl, one that put him in mind of that big red dog he encountered now and again in the alleys.

Then, with some noticeable effort, a remarkably serene look descended onto her scratched and bruised face, "not at all, Peter. Just spent some time getting to know some of the locals, clearing the air, as it were; quite an amiable and entertaining afternoon it was, all around." And with hardly a limp made her way through the room and up the stairs. And while there was some speculation among the three left behind in the kitchen, certainly, no one really wanted to go make any further inquiries, not right then. 

{"Tangled with WHO??! Of all the bloody fool stunts! There's a full eight or nine of those little blighters!" "And aint like she can use a knife on em like she did Merrick and 'is lot!"} he though furiously. {"Thought maybe a round with Billy Camber; they 'ad words the other day. But the Brangle Street lads??"}

Peter Newkirk was beside himself. Fine thing it was, he just started teaching the Brat and she up and tries to get herself scragged by a gang of wannabe thugs, young thugs to be sure, but at fourteen or fifteen well old enough, the leader a full year older, and all big enough to be dangerous on their own, much less when taken all together. Yet, that's what she'd done, it seems.

Mick Donovan saw the whole thing, and he was relating it to Peter over a pint at The Bull, all with considerable amusement. "A thing of beauty, it was, Peter me lad. Only five of them in the lot, this time, but still that's five against one, but the brawl left some in the dust, others running for their skins! But I 'ave to ask, 'ow does it feel, being the object of such a spirited defense? Just like a gentle fair maiden in one a them old ballads, though you don't quite look the part, I must admit."

Peter looked at him, a puzzled and slightly offended frown on his face. "What are you runnin on about, Mick? Me? What did I 'ave to do with this?"

Mike just gave him a wide grin, and a voice from behind Peter came in a teasing growl, "Didn't you 'ear, mate? Twas your 'onor, your reputation being questioned, seems like. That's what started the whole thing."

The small blond was someone in the same general line as Peter, name of Grainger, went by Goniff to those on the street. They didn't have a lot to do with each other, were friendly enough but watched each other rather warily being as they were sort of competitors. And perhaps with a different type of wariness, or perhaps more of an awareness that neither were sure was a good enough idea to let become more than that. "And that of the fair Marisol, but seems mostly yours."

And they proceeded to tell what they'd seen and heard. It was obvious Peter was not happy about what he heard, not one bit of it. Mick and Goniff laughed, amused at his reaction, and Goniff clapped a hand to Peter's shoulder in mock comfort, "now, now, mate. Not many of us 'ave a gallant knight defending our good name, even such a young one; you should feel 'onored, I'd think," and laughing again as Peter lifted his head to glare at both of them. They went on to add a few little bits they'd not told him before, and he could feel the headache coming on.

By the time they were finished, Peter had laid his forehead on the table and was groaning, "That BRAT!! She's gonna be the death of me, I swear she is!"

Startled, the two other men looked at each other, frowned, and in unison asked, "SHE??!"

Maude was trying to keep from grinning when she saw him next, and Marisol wasn't even going so far as to try. They looked at his face and they knew he'd heard the talk, too, and they didn't even have to guess what he thought about it. He sat down in the chair opposite Maude, heavily as if he'd no energy left, and reached out a hand for the bottle and glass she'd had the foresight to have sitting on the table, pouring himself a hefty shot and taking a good sip.

In his mind he replayed what he'd heard, the pictures that brought to mind, and while he was appalled by what had happened, what had been said to the girl, what those rascals had tried, still, thinking of the shock the Brangle Street lads must have had when she waded in to them, well, he had to admit there was some humor there. That, and thinking about the looks on those lads' faces when they heard, as they surely would, that they'd been bested by a girl!

By then, his expressive lips were starting to quiver just a bit, then a grin matching theirs slipped into place, and he started to laugh, shaking his head ruefully. "And the best part? She took them all down or sent them scurrying for 'ome, all without them, or the ones watching, ever figuring out she was a lass! Mick and Goniff were telling me all about it, and when I told them 'that Brat's gonna be the death of me, I swear she is!', their jaws dropped so 'ard you could almost 'ear it; thought they were gonna need a change of trousers they laughed so 'ard, least once I convinced them of the truth; don't think there's many gonna brace 'er, not once this gets around.

"Seems, there's been some seen 'er done up as a lass, well, as much as she does that, and they've 'eard us talk about 'er as a lass, of course; others seen 'er like she is when she goes about in the streets, more or less like a lad; we're so used to the changing back and forth, never thought much about it, but word out there is there's TWO of them, lad AND lass, both come to study with us three. The Brangle Street lads cornered 'er, taunting 'er about what I was teaching 'im, after 'ours, you know, along with what Marisol was teaching, AND what we both were teaching the girl too. They suggested 'e give them some demonstrations of the skills 'e'd learned from me in particular, and made a few suggestions as to where those demonstrations could start and end up, commencing with 'im on 'is knees and ending up there too. Seems she 'ad 'er own notions as to what skills she preferred to demonstrate, and they took their lumps, they surely did. AND told them all off in no uncertain terms all the while she was doing it!"

He shook his head, "why didn't she just get the bloody 'ell out of there? Why stay and take them on like that? Could 'ave gotten 'erself in a 'ell of a state, she could 'ave!"

Maude laughed at him gently, at his growing agitation. "Peter, you should know her better by now; I know it's not been all that long but you 'ave to know she'd not stand for that!" He looked at her, puzzled, uncomprehending.

Marisol shook her head at him, "Peter, we live in this place; it's not an easy place to survive, we all know that. People think they know us fairly well, what we are capable of, what we are likely to do. That's important; sometimes everything rests on whether people think they can trust you and under what conditions. You really want our neighbors thinking we can't be trusted around their youngsters? You really want those who live 'ere thinking you're diddling around with young boys and 'alf-grown girls? 'Ave your name being one of those mentioned among the most likely next time some young missy comes up with 'er apron a bit too 'igh, or some lad comes to 'arm in the alleyways? Me, that I'm likely to be drawing the young ones up to my room for me to toy with? I surely don't want that on my name, and that's what was being put out for both of us, you know. Yes, they were bracing Caeide, trying to get a rise, pushing 'er to fight them, thinking she was the boy; probably wouldn't 'ave done that with 'er if they'd been faced with 'er dressed more like a girl, just because. But either way, the base of it was, in 'ER mind, the insult to you, to me; and believe me, she is well aware of what word like that could do to either of us. She'll be gone when the year is over; we'll still be 'ere, living along side these people. 

Mike Donovan and Goniff Grainger couldn't resist putting the word out, it was all just too amusing, and it was best that they did, of course. And they weren't the only ones. The day after the brawl, the father of one of the Brangle Street gang came to Maudie's pub, bristling, demanding to meet the lad who had the set to with his son, wanting to find the truth of it all, looking with more than a little suspicion on Peter and Marisol, looks they made sure to return with some rueful amusement, rather than the anger they'd both felt upon proper reflection.

That not being the reaction the older man had been expecting, well, that gave him some doubts as to whether what he'd heard being all so right. At the sight of the trouser and jacket-clad young person being summoned to meet with him, though, well, he was all puffed up and righteous, til that young person came closer, removed her cap and nodded at him amiably, "and a good day to you, sir; you were wanting to have a word with me?" coming in greeting. The voice was young, certainly, but bright and clear, and if a trifle husky, was obviously a female voice. Caeide had left off the tight undershirt for this meeting, using the one a couple of stages up so her female form was apparent, though not so buxom as her unrestrained figure, and the short jacket, worn in place of the usual longer one, left her female curves in full view.

The man hastily removed his own cap and nodded a bit briskly in return, "And a good day to you too, lass. And where's your brother? Tis him I've come to have words with, missy."

She looked up at him, with a slightly puzzled frown. "I've four brothers, sir, but none here. My older brother, Michael, he's away at school, in Scotland, along with two of my younger ones; have been since term began. The youngest one, he's still at home with our parents, of course; he's just a little tike, he is," motioning with her hand to about her knee level.

Then the frown cleared away, and she gave him a remarkably winsome smile, "ah, you've heard the foolishness being said of me. My parents felt it best I dress less like a female when out and about, at least til I come to a good understanding of the risks and pitfalls around, you know. I hadn't realized any were truly mistaking me, til that bit of a toss-up yesterday; was merely trying to look a bit less vulnerable, you know." The look now became rueful, though amused, "seems perhaps I succeeded rather better than planned," with an endearing chuckle. The smile was now utterly charming, almost the equal of Peter Newkirk at his most engaging best. In fact, Peter was looking a little stunned at that smile, totally unlike anything he'd seen from her.

Maudie gave him a quick, highly amused glance, {"aye, that got his attention! Wondered when he'd realize she's more than she seems!"} Cam Madison, the burly man facing her, WAS charmed, that was obvious. He followed her gesture and took a seat at one of the tables, and Maude was quick to put a pint in front of him, a small dram of whisky in front of the girl.

"And twas you took on my son and the lads??!" he asked, incredulously.

Her eyes got bigger, wider, absolutely shining with sincerity, "well, I hadn't intended to, of course, and I got rather a scold when I got home," grinning over at Peter and Maude and Marisol, all leaning against the bar. "But my parents didn't raise me to back down from trouble, you know, nor did they raise me to be missish. Well, would hardly have sent me here for my training, were that so."

She had the grace to look slightly apologetic, slightly sheepish. "I'd no intention of losing my temper, you know, and had it just been them bracing me, I doubt I would have. I've little hesitation about having a dust-up once in a while; good practice, you know, especially with street fighting and such. More of my training was on a different sort of fighting. But, just general brawling, without trying for real harm, I don't get so much of that, so it was rather refreshing."

She frowned then, becoming more solemn, "but, what they were putting about, about my teachers, that just wasn't something to be tolerated. Each of them have skills my parents thought it would be valuable for me to learn, and have full faith in them to teach me and teach me well. I owe them my respect and my gratitude for that. But, I assure you, Mr. Madison, what they're teaching me is nothing like what the lads were implying, not that I truly believe THEY think that anyway; well, they certainly wouldn't if they could hear some of the lectures I get around here, about what's acceptable, what's not, about not letting anyone get above the line. Right stiff-necked they are about it too!" She lowered her voice, and said, confidingly, "especially Peter. He's rather conservative about such things, you know!" She blithly ignored the incredulous look on his face, or the choking sound and snickers from the bar behind her.

Her voice raised to its former cheerful level, "I realize the lads were just trying to get a rise out of me, which they truly did. Still, tis not something I appreciate them saying, nor something I'll tolerate listening to, and they and all else might as well get used to that. 'Twould be disrepectful for me to do otherwise, as I'm sure you can see. My parents would be right ashamed of me were I to do so." The look on Cam Madison's face was rather remarkable, as he looked over at the three standing across the room, the two women exchanging rueful smiles with each other, Peter still looking stunned, as if he was trying to get over being called 'conservative' by that impudent, conniving little Brat, then back at the youngster sitting across from him, sipping easily from that glass of whiskey.

"And do your parents and teachers approve of you drinking strong spirits, missy?" he asked with some sternness, though a smile was teasing at the sides of his mouth.

She raised her brows, "this?" lifting the glass. "Hardly strong spirits, just a bit of whisky. If you wish to taste strong spirits," she gave him a laugh that fair begged him to join in her own amusement, "I'll invite you for a sampling when next the family sends me a package from home. My maithren makes a honey mead like to take the top of your head off, if you're not careful. We're trained on that, you know, and da's stillwork, which is almost her equal; makes ought else seem a bit tame." And her warm chuckle was infectious, and he laughed along with her.

Marisol was trying to refrain from grinning, though the look she exchanged with Maude held more than a little humor in it. Cam Madison was a strong and gruff man, not given to laughter and such, and he had been totally charmed by their student, it would seem.

Though the pairing of the word 'conservative' with Peter Newkirk seemed a bit, well, much, to his way of thinking; he'd known the younger man most all his life and that wasn't a term he'd have thought of first off, though he had heard from his son about all those 'rules' the man supposedly had about his romantic interactions. Maudie was able to relieve his mind when they discussed the matter a few days later over a congenial pint. "Aye, well for as much as she considers 'im conservative, I think it's more that 'e's that apprehensive about shepherding a thirteen year old girl through the East End for a year; 'e's perhaps a bit overprotective in some ways; even scolds Mari and me for teaching 'er things 'e's not comfortable with 'er knowing." She snorted briskly, "as if most girls 'er age aren't starting to learn about such things, and rightly so, for their own protection if nothing else! She's thirteen, not six! Still, Peter, 'e takes the responsibility dead serious, 'e does, and I'm proud of 'im for it. Says 'e intends 'er to leave 'ere in the same state as she arrived, if it killed 'im seeing to it. Well, I doubt it'll kill 'im, but I wonder if 'is nerves will ever be the same!" And Cam Madison laughed long and hard, "from what I've seen of 'er, I doubt they will be!"

And he added his voice to those who scoffed openly at the notion of any wrong-doing with the teaching arrangement, and made sure his son and the other lads were well acquainted with his opinion, and offered the back of his hand to any who thought to spread such talk. And he still chuckled at times, watching the 'conservative' Peter Newkirk wend his way through that year, trying to deal with and contain his irrepressible charge.

And so the talk about the three at Maudie's pub was short-lived, and any who thought to bring it up again were laughed into silence. And the Brangle Street lads, well, Derrick Madison declared a truce, and spit and shook hands on it with Caeide O'Donnell, and if any outside the area tried a dust-up with either side, they got far more than they bargained for! And if sometimes, at odd times, that smile that had sat upon the girl's face, well, if that passed through Peter Newkirk's mind, he tried quite hard not to have it linger there. He was not always successful, mind you, but he did try.

***

She was uneasy, and then more than uneasy, outright worried. He'd been planning to meet her at Alverson's for a quick lesson, but he hadn't shown up, and she'd no idea of what plans he might have had before the meeting; she hadn't seen him since yesterday morning, after all. She got back to the pub only to find it in a turmoil, Maude scurrying around, grabbing the medical kit and putting water on to boil.

"Maudie? What's happened now?? What's he run into?" somehow knowing WHO all this activity was more than likely for, if not the why. After all, in her opinion Peter could run into trouble attending a Parsons' Guild Tea, and all without making any effort at all.

Maudie heaved a deep sigh of relief, "and it's more than glad I am to see you! I was afraid you'd gotten caught up in this madness, and the others didn't seem to know! I'm not getting much sense out of Davie, well, you know 'ow tangle-tongued 'e is at best of times; and Charlie and Mike are getting patched up in the kitchen. They took some lumps in the brawl, but Peter . . ."

Her blood chilled, "Maudie, how bad is he hurt?" and was relieved at least somewhat by the grim, "'e's 'ad worse, lord knows, but they did a right number on 'im, they did. Will be taking a few days to get back on 'is feet, if not more, and moving right slowly then, I'll wager. Still out, though, so don't really know what set it off."

A deep voice came from the hallway from the kitchen, "a bunch of 'ire bullies, it were. Was able to tell us that much afore 'e went off again, and Charlie recognized a couple of em. Outterlings got a convoy comin through in a few days; they're sending a message to all around to let it be, and since the bully boys 'ad a run in or two with Peter afore, decided they'd let 'im be the message, if you get my meaning," Mike Dodson grated out. He showed clear signs of being in a fight, surely, bruises to his face, a swollen lip, and he was nursing a clenched right hand wrapped in a linen towel spattered with fresh blood.

"We was in The Bull when Derrick Madison comes running in, panting, telling us Peter was set on over on Beeton Way; we scurried over where 'e told us." He shook his head in admiration, "damned dirty fighter, 'e is, our Peter, when there's a need for it. Was 'olding 'is own, but was four to one, and them with bully clubs too, and 'im with 'is back up against a wall. Got to em just when 'e went down with a bloody 'ard clip. Don't know if they were planning to finish 'im or not; we got in a few swings, but they took off when they saw it was even odds; they don't much like that, you know."

Caeide thanked her lucky stars she'd made truce and then alliance with Derrick Madison and the Brangle Street lads, though maybe he'd have done the same anyway; the hire bullies were friends to damn few in the East End. Still, she owed the lad, and she'd take care of that little thing at the first opportunity. Peter's friends, well, they'd have stepped in, certainly, once they'd known, IF they'd have known, but she'd see they had a round or two of drinks anyway. {"In fact, I'll take care of that right now, the first round anyway,"} and without asking headed to where the whiskey was kept. Three goodly tots she poured out into the three dram glasses, the good stuff, and handed them over to Mike, dropping coin from her jacket pocket over the counter into the box used until the till was brought out for the day.

"For you and the lads; you're good friends, Mike, and it's appreciated," and the voice, the firm nod she gave him, well, it wasn't a child he was facing, and he blinked somewhat at the sight and sound, him being used to thinking of her that way, more or less, the way Peter encouraged them all to see her, the way Peter forced himself to see her. "I'll stand you each another round when the time is better," she told him, and now the look on his face was one of bemusement. Maude snorted just a bit, {"yes, that 'aint I just an innocent young darling' routine just got set aside, like it always does when the boy gets himself in trouble. I've never figured out just how they all seem to forget it, after the ruckus is all over, though. Peter, now, HE just REFUSES to see it, but you'd think the others would remember."}

"Caeide, I'll need your 'elp; Mari is off for a day's work, left afore all this started, and opening time is just not that far off. The law would close me down for putting you behind the bar, so after we get Peter organized, I'll need you to be staying with 'im." She smiled a little to herself at the serious agreement on the young woman's face. {"As if she'd be wanting to be anywhere else, except perhaps out looking for those four bully boys, and I'd rather she didn't try that!"}

"They're likely to make another try?" Caeide asked, and the look exchanged between Maude and Mike told her that was all too likely.

"We'll 'ang around a bit; Davie and me, we got a day's work on starting at one, but Charlie might be able to stay then, though 'e was gonna come with us, thinking the boss might be able to use 'im too. We can skip, or try for others," he said, but hesitantly. Work was scarce in the East End, and money even scarcer, so giving up on either was a real hardship.

Maude shook her head, "stay for a bit, if you can, til we get things settled, but then you go on about what needs doing; you three are needin to pay the rent and put food on the table same as us. I'll bolt the back door; I've the bell to give the alarm, she'll leave the door open upstairs so she can 'ear. I've my pistol, Caeide can 'andle a gun better than I can, and 'er knife work, well, you've seen that," and that got another rather odd look from the stocky man facing them. He realized he tended to forget since she wasn't bold or brash about it, but yes, he remembered her knife work! He remembered Merrick and her knife work quite well.

"And Caeide's not afraid to use them, gun or knife," the young woman assured him, her face telling him this was not bravado speaking, though now that he'd remembered, he had no reason to quarrel with that either.

"Doubt they'll try anything on once the pub gets business going," he admitted.

Caeide had a thought, "wouldn't hurt for Derrick Madison and his lads to keep their eyes and ears open; I've coin enough to pay for a watching and warning til after that bloody convoy gets through and this has all settled." She frowned at them, "eyes and ears, no more; they're brae lads, but they're not up to the weight of the bully boys, not yet leastwise. If you could carry the word to them, Mike?"

The man nodded thoughtfully, "aye, that might be a good notion; they see a lot, those scalawags."

"And tell Derrick for me, I owe him special for finding you to come help. He'd a liking for that new knife my da sent me from home; tell him it's his, next time we meet."

"Doubt he was expecting payment for that, lass, but I'll tell him," liking that she wasn't expecting something for nothing, liking that she understood how things worked in the East End even though she was from away, but amused that she was taking this on as her own debt for some reason. He started to say something of the kind to Maude, but somehow realizing that what was in the older woman's eyes was respect and wry acceptance, only slightly mixed with amusement, he rethought his words. 

Peter was still abed, still bruised and aching, his ribs wrapped tight to prevent them shifting now that Maude had got them back in place. His head still ached like mad, and the long contusion was taking its own sweet time in healing. And that blow to his hip with the cudgel, well, he'd think he could be up and walking, then the joint would give way and he'd be cursing from the floor, Maude and Caeide cursing while standing over him, telling him once again that they'd TOLD him not to try to get up on his own, that he'd jar those ribs back out of place again, never mind what other damage he'd do to himself, puncture a lung likely as not!

The news that'd come this morning, well, that put him in a temper too, and a worry settled over the whole pub. That blasted convoy? The whisky and cigarettes run (perhaps with just a bit of hashish and opium and whatever else might bring a tidy profit) the Outterlings had been so worried about? Well, it'd been taken, trucks and all, their drivers and guards and outriders laying scattered about like nine-pins, stunned and bloodied. No one in the East End thought that'd be taken lightly, and Peter was more than a little concerned he might be the lightning rod of the upcoming activity. He was arguing with Maude, her not being much inclined to fetching his pistol for him. "Yes, well I don't intend to shoot myself, Maudie! But those bully boys, they might take some persuading, you know! I want my pistol 'ere with me! As well as my pencil sharpener! You and Mari and the Brat need to do the same, and take care when you're out and about. No telling what comes to their flippin' minds. They may be powerful, but to my way of thinking, they're none too bright, you know."

And Maude had reluctantly given in; his moods had always been volatile and he was getting hard to manage what with having to be abed for this long. She worried about the depression that was just part of his own self, and a gun didn't go well with that. Still, she doubted he'd do anything so rash what with being laid up in the girl's bed; she looked at him, and it was as if he read her mind. He gave her a grim and knowing shake of his head, "no, Maudie, I'd not do anything like that to 'er, or to you either, not 'ere," and she had to be satisfied with that, though she'd have been a lot happier if he'd left off that 'not 'ere'. And she had to think he'd not do anything anyway, not when they might need him to guard against the danger he'd brought down on them, not that he'd done it on purpose, of course.

She admitted later, he'd been right. The Outterling's bully boys had arrived via the kitchen door, just before closing time, sending it slamming open with a crash, and made their way in a rush up those back stairs. Seems they'd tried Peter's flat first, but seeing no signs of recent occupation, figured the pub would be where he was holed up, and rightly so. Peter and Caeide had heard the crash, and when the four men burst through the bedroom door, it was to face two pistols, both held in steady hands. When Maude entered behind them, another pistol aimed at them, they yelled, made a few threats, but left. It didn't hurt, of course, that there were a few patrons still below who came swarming to see what the to-do was about; the bully boys had no friends in that group, either. The back door was braced shut, with two of the men promising to come repair it in the morning, and Maude continued with the last of the customers. If she'd seemed more than a bit worried about the threats from the bully boys, threats against Peter surely, but now against her and Marisol and Caeide and the pub itself, she tried not to show it too much. Though her pistol didn't leave her side, not once.

She'd seen the girl slip out the door of the pub right after all the commotion, but made no mention of it to Peter, and made excuses to Peter and later to Marisol when they asked after her, and concealed her lingering worry well enough, she thought. Peter was a bit miffed, to tell the truth, at the girl's absence; he'd gotten accustomed to her being there by his side, running his errands, fetching him tea or a drink, ready with a song or a story to ease him into sleep.

"What if she runs into trouble with them? She can't be out there alone!" He was worried, he was annoyed, damn it, he wanted her here! But at an urgent whisper from Maude, Marisol teased him, distracting him, telling him he was acting like a spoiled child, telling him even a nanny had a right to a few hours of her own free time, telling him she doubted the girl was alone anyway, telling him the girl just might have a lad she was meeting up with, maybe young Madison now they'd stopped fighting with each other. "Think I saw 'im 'ear earlier. Sixteen, 'e is, a young man a the world, and not unpleasing to the eye, to my thinking. Can see the appeal, I can."

She noted with amusement the narrowing of his eyes as he thought that over, and the sullen droop to his mouth. She exchanged a quick grin with Maude and whispered as she was bringing out a deck of cards to while away the time, "don't think 'e liked that notion much, do you?" Maude snorted, "not one bit, though 'e'd give you all kinds a good reasons why; some of em might even 'ave some truth to em," and they shared a knowing look and laugh. The girl would be in for some stern lectures from the young man, but that was better than him guessing at the real reason for her absence. Marisol didn't know just what that was, only that Maude hadn't wanted him searching too far down those lines, and she and Maude worked as a solid team in looking out for the stubborn, annoying man stretched out in that bed. For herself, Maude was just as glad to have his mind drifting along those lines, rather than along where her own was moving. She knew she'd not rest easy til the lass was back home again, where she belonged.

Derrick Madison held the knife out to her, hilt first. "Think you'll be needin this; t'other's a loss now."

"I gave it to you," she reminded him, wiping her face and hands on the handkerchiefs she had tucked into her pockets.

"Aye, and I'm givin it back; looks like you did yours in taking that last down. And you deserve it, no doubt there. Yer a right treacle, but you got Hamptons AND corfies, you do. Wouldn't wanta see ya short. W'at ya think, get these to the shake fore the bottles come round? Don't want ta end up in the ginger, not for the likes a them."

She nodded, "that's the idea. Saw transport, down aways." And when she fetched the car she'd hotwired, he and his cousin Kyle helped her drag the bodies and get them dumped into the river. She started to move away and his hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"Any chance for a hit n' miss? Yer a briney, alright. I ever think to get cashed, wouldn't mind someone like you for the trouble," he admitted.

She gave a companionable laugh, accepting the flattering words, including the acknowledgement that for all of being a darling and a sweetheart, she certainly had teeth and balls, but declining both the request for a kiss and the apparent proposal of marriage somewhere down the road. "I think not, but I AM flattered."

"Well, didn't think so, but worth a try," he shrugged with a grin. {"Still, she'd make a fine wife, she would, whether to watch yer back or stand at yer side and share your bed. Won't be 'er, maybe, but when it's time, know better w'at I'm looking for now."} They made their way back to the pub quietly, them going on their way after she went inside, giving them a raised hand, a nod and a wicked grin as she did so.

After she was gone, thirteen year old Kyle looked at him like he was crazy, "bloody 'ell, Derrick! Don't care just 'ow nice a set of carpets she's got; wake up with yer weasel agapin, yer likely to! Flat brown bread, you'd end up!" and Kyle didn't understand the laugh his three year older cousin gave him.

"Kyle, it'd be bloody well worth it; she gets that worked up, can ya think w'at she'd be like in the toss??!"

Kyle just muttered to himself, "get yer swanee sliced, that's w'at she'd be like, most likely!" Another couple of years under his belt and Kyle would better understand his cousin's way of thinking, though, and would have adjusted his own notion of some of the essentials in a wife. A nice pair of carpets, well, that was one thing, acourse, but a woman with Hamptons and corfies an lots of juice, well, that was something worth lookin for! 

By the next morning the word hit the streets and by late afternoon the bobbies were at the door, demanding to talk to Peter. It was Sunday; the pub was closed but Maude answered their pounding and, grumbling, led them up those stairs to the tiny front bedroom, preaching loudly to them all the while.

They didn't much like the answers they got from the bandaged but defiant young man sprawled back against those pillows, but the doctor they brought with them told them flat out there was no way HE'D have been able to take down four bruisers, not with the damage he'd taken, and confirmed that yes, those injuries were NOT from the previous day, but a good week and gone. Mike and Davie and Charlie and any others that might have fallen under suspicion, all had strong alibis, and besides, while they were good in a brawl, none of them were known for knife work much less guns, and that's what had taken down three of the four, a knife; one had taken a bullet to the heart. Peter had never run with the truly deadly crowd; his mates could look after themselves, well, had to be able to in this neighborhood, but rarely took the offensive. The car that had transported the bodies had been found, but no traces of who'd been doing the driving.

The bobbies weren't satisfied, having hoped to clear this up neatly and quickly, whether with the right person or not, at least getting it off their books, but Maude, stern and disapproving of their accusations had made them question themselves, and the doctor, their own man even, kept insisting after he'd examined Peter, the dark-haired young man protesting bitterly all the while, "I doubt he'd be able to walk even yet; that hip's in a bad way, along with the head, not to mention those ribs. No, you've the wrong end of the stick this time. I imagine those men had more than a few enemies, you know."

The doctor snorted, thinking to annoy them as much as they'd annoyed him by dragging him against his wishes into this miserable sordid part of town where you couldn't draw in a clean breath of air, and said in a low voice to the ranking man, nodding to the youngster seated near the bed, thinking to himself, {"lass is probably twelve or so, maybe the woman's granddaughter, maybe a bit simple with those big slightly unfocused eyes and the way the gran is hovering at her side, making sure we men don't get near her."} "Might as well accuse the ole woman, or maybe 'er while yer at it; just as likely in my opinion," and gave a laugh as the three bobbies took a good look and then gave the doctor a disgusted glare.

"Aye, that's right; make fun, but they're wanting answers downtown, you know!", though now resigned to giving downtown the standard answer to trouble in the East End, 'probably never know, sir; you know how they are down there!'

The girl, dressed in a long skirt and simple blouse, perhaps tall for her age maybe but still obviously young and unformed yet, hair in a kerchief with a loose braid hanging over her shoulder, well, she'd been quiet and wide-eyed, obviously shy around so many strangers, all of them men, perched on the edge of the armchair, keeping herself to holding the glass of water she'd fetched for the dark-haired rather battered and bruised young man laid up in the bed. The only words they had from her were a quiet, respectful, almost whispery, "yes, sir, fair done in, he was" in response to whether he was truly injured or a shocked, "no, sir, not at all he didn't; well, couldn't 'ardly even get to the loo withouten 'elp, now could 'e?," in response to their question as to whether Peter had left that room anytime during the time in question or since.

Maude walked with them to the door, nodded crisply at their leave-taking, and turned to Caeide who had followed along in their wake. Caeide met those stern, all too knowing eyes with her own level gaze, that unfocused look now gone. She wasn't sure what Maude's reaction was going to be; somehow, she was a bit surprised and gratified at the fierce hug and the hard kiss on her forehead, though.

"Pour a glass of whisky for 'im, another of that bourbon you fancy, the good stuff, mind you! and go in and sit with 'im, and NO, you're not to be dropping anything into the till for it! Let 'im complain and moan to you, sing one of yer songs in that girl's voice of yours, maybe tell 'im one of the old stories 'e likes but pretends not to listen to, til 'e settles down to rest. Best leave that woman's voice of yers away til 'e's less likely to make the connection. There be any what knows what really 'appened?" Maude asked.

"Derrick Madison, his cousin Kyle," she admitted. "They helped me dump the bodies."

"Aye, well they'll not make mention. W'at about the Outterlings? You 'ave plans there too?" she asked sternly, having figured out the young woman wasn't one for half-way measures, thinking of how to convince her not to take on the two aspiring underworld figures, only to get a wicked grin that shook even Maude. {"No, that 'innocent little darling' is nowhere around, not right now!"}

"No, but I understand Frankie V does; I understand they made some threats other than to us, I'm sure the word's gotten back to him by now," and somehow that look told Maude just where that word originated, or if not that, at least how it reached its destination so quickly, "and I've heard he doesn't react particularly well to such as that, not to mention them thinking to set rule around here in what he considers HIS territory. Well, he didn't much when the Dasons' thought to, now did he? I'll wait and see, but I imagine we can leave it safely in his hands. If nothing else, I imagine they'll be too busy to think about any of us."

Maude shook her head at the young woman with the serene smile facing her, "most like. Now, go along with you; 'e'll be fussing by the time you get there. Oh, and you might get a lecture about keeping the line with Derrick Madison or any of the other lads; you know, 'is usual; you'll know 'ow to deal with that, I'm sure," and with a grin Caeide poured the drinks and dashed up the stairs to spend time placating their 'stay out of trouble', 'play it safe' laddie. Well, but first a stop in Marisol's room to get out of those bloody breast bindings that had her wrapped so tight. Useful they were, giving her the figure of someone younger, but uncomfortable as hell! She sure wouldn't want to be singing with them in place! 

Downstairs Maude poured herself a goodly dose of whiskey, glancing upwards to the room where those two young people were dancing that strange dance around each other. Marisol came in from her last job, "all in order, Maude?" see the unexpected glass in the older woman's hand.

"Aye, well, as much as it can be," and Maude filled Marisol in on the events of the afternoon. "Just wish she was a few years older, that's all; if ever . . ."

And Maude saw Marisol glance upwards as well, "yes, well, that's true enough. Only one I've seen who matches 'im for stubbornness, anyways, and she's as true as they come." And together they sighed, and Maude poured Mari a whiskey of her own, and they made their way to the kitchen to start their evening meal. They'd not venture up those stairs, not for awhile, not wanting to interrupt what ever solace was being offered, being accepted. That it would be in line with propriety, they didn't doubt, knowing Peter and his rules, his sheer determination, but still, it was a private thing, and they didn't want to intrude.

She listened while he ranted about the bloody bobbies and where they had their heads tucked away, thinking he'd be able to take down those four when he couldn't even make it down the stairs or even across the bloody floor by himself yet, watching the fire flicker and roll in his blue-green eyes. She listened while he preached that it was more than likely the Outterling brothers had put paid to them for not getting the message across, what with the convoy being taken clean and neat like that, enjoying the play of emotion over his expressive face and that voice that seemed to reach inside her and touch her so intimately. She watched as he talked himself dry, drank down the whiskey she'd handed him, and started to get that weary look he got far too easily now, wishing she was able to put her arms around him and hold him close, and soothe him as she longed to. And she waited for what was coming, the request for the one thing she COULD do to help.

He leaned back into the heaped up pillows heavily, his breath starting to catch the way it did when he'd exerted himself too much. "Any chance for a bit of a song, Brat? Maybe something English for a change?" he asked, with more than a little sarcasm in his voice with the last sentence.

She taunted him, "I've told you, Peter, I'm not . . ." and grinned at the exasperated roll of his eyes.

"Yes, I know, yer not bloody English! 'ave it yer own way, but maybe just for a bit?" he begged, and she fetched her guitar from the corner, and gave him a song, then a second, and the third, each softer and slower than the one before, then drifting into a hushed telling of one, then another, of the old fairy tales he pretended not to like, til his eyes drooped shut, and his breathing deepened into sleep. Once she knew he was truly, deeply asleep, she reached out one hand and very gently brushed the dark hair back from his forehead, and dropped an even more gentle kiss to the top of his head, and eased the covers up around his shoulders. {"Sleep, love. I think there's none to come bothering you now, not for awhile."} But she knew she'd be watchful, nevertheless, her pistol in her side pocket once again, her knives back in their sheaths now the bobbies were gone.

She was only here for the one year, she knew that; but for that one year, she'd do all she could to keep him safe, to keep them all safe. And she knew she'd give all she had, all she hoped to attain, to keep him safe always, saddened to know that wouldn't be possible, but still wishing it with all her heart.


	7. Just a Poke in the Ribs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight months into the Internship, and a simple little training exercise goes terribly wrong.

A nice quiet little job, just a training exercise really, that was all it was supposed to be. Who'd have known that Maxie and his little band had their eye on the same target? Who'd have known that Maxie had a new enforcer on his team, a blank-eyed hulk who breathed through his mouth, like his adenoids should have been removed? Who had a penchant for knives, a liking for violence, and a total absence of anything approaching common sense?! 

Peter had done his usual thorough preparation for the job. He'd always thought that was at least half of it, if not more, the finding out of all the details, the planning, the thinking it through, covering all contingencies; after all that, the rest, well, that was just a physical exercise for the most part, to his way of thinking, mixed with a fair amount of caution, that is. Of course, any job could go all pear shaped, but good planning eliminated much of the risk. Actually, this wasn't one he'd have ever really tried on; not worth the effort, really, not enough in it for the bother, certainly not enough to get the bobbies looking at him, so he didn't intend they actually make away with anything, but it had some interesting aspects to it, things it'd be good to teach the lass, so he decided to use it for that purpose. That safe, now, five muted tumblers, not the more usual more distinct four you'd find in a safe of that size. A building just a bit higher than he'd usually try for, him being of the tall sort to whom second story work didn't come natural, but with the brickwork being an interesting challenge. No alarm system to speak of, but hints of some tricksey bits of hardware, latches, that sort of thing. So, he had her work on the plan with him, him guiding her, answering her questions, making sure she understood not just what they were doing, but the why and how, so she'd be able to plan such for herself later. Though neither of them knew it, that would serve them both well in the future, that training. However, this particular little job? Well, even the best of plans . . .

They'd made their plans, he'd made sure she understood, made her repeat it back to him, had her draw it out again and again, til she started to lose patience with him. "Peter, if I can't do it now, I'm never going to be able to! It's not what we know that's going to trip me up, it's what we can't know til we're there, right?!" He knew she was right, so they set out, moving in unison til they got close, then alternating, keeping to the shadows. To the alley behind the building, up the side, her easing her way up the uneven brickwork, through the window, all the latches and locks, all going well so far. Then, pulling back the shades, him going first, to her amusement for all his talk about this being all up to her, her following. He stood back then, letting her locate the safe by herself, watching her work her fingers in preparation, then setting them to the dial, her ear resting just above the tumblers. He watched as the grin came, her sheer exuberance at making this work showing clearly, and then the click, and the swinging open of the safe. He moved forward, looking carefully for any traps, approving that while she was looking too, she was also watching his face for any sign of trouble. Nothing, all was clear. He nodded, and she reached in and removed the small box within, checking to be sure it held the necklace he'd been told it would, and then, with another nod, having her put it back in exactly the same spot, though with her giving him a small, mock pout, not that she had a taste for fancy geegaws like that, and swinging the safe shut.

They shared a wide grin of accomplishment as the safe door clicked back in place just as the door to the room swung open and Maxie and his crew eased through. Everyone froze in place. Maxie, seeing and understanding at a glance what was taking place, knowing the task Newkirk had taken on, realized there was no competition here, knowing Newkirk didn't deal in this sort of thing, had no intention of a rumble or of taking their spoils. He started to grin and nod at his fellow thief now turned teacher and his student in amusement at their ending up in the same place at the same time, but Joey, well, Joey just wasn't bright enough to understand the situation, and wasn't obedient enough to take Maxie's hushed order into account. He moved in, much quicker than you'd think for someone his size.

Newkirk had only an astonished moment to realize the big man had a knife in his hand and clearly meant to use it; he turned to reach out toward the girl who was on the far left side of him, to shove her toward the window, realizing by then there'd not be enough time for him to make it out after her before Joey would reach him, but thinking, knowing she was his responsibility, he had to make sure she could make it to the window and out safely; he heard the swish of the blade, lost sight of her, bracing himself for the blow, only to hear the grunt, feel the push of a body against his back, pushing him onward toward the window.

He heard a gasp, accompanied by another small sound, too low to be a moan, still something told him it would have been if it had let itself. He couldn't see her in front of him where she should have been! He twisted, facing back into the room, to receive the falling body of the girl in his arms, feeling the blood on his hands. "Are you bleedin' mad!" he gasped, not knowing whether he was talking to her, to Maxie, or to Joey. {"How the 'ell did this 'appen?! She'd been to the other side of me; the knife should've not been anywhere near 'er!"} 

Maxie was appalled; a simple job, fucked up by that idiot he'd taken on, just cause he was married to Maxie's cousin, who wasn't too bright either, but his mother had insisted, what with it being family and all. He knew Peter Newkirk, knew he was not a dangerous man, most times anyway, but could be, had the potential, and knew he'd just crossed way over a line to let that happen. He watched in horror as Joey, who was obviously even more stupid that even Maxie had thought, pulled the knife back and tried to finish the job, saw the look on Newkirk's face looking at the girl in his arms, saw those eyes turn to pure ice, and decided to do the only thing he really could to prevent what could mean war in the East End; it was a jungle here, true, but there were laws, rules, and what had just happened, well, that broke some important ones. Maxie stepped in and broke Joey's neck with one snap.>p>

"We never intended this, I swear. Look, I'll 'elp you get 'er outta 'ere, get 'er someplace. . ." only to have the tall man snarl at him, "you take care of your own, I'll take care of 'er; you need to choose your people more carefully, Maxie. If I thought you . . ." and Maxie stepped back, raising his hands up and out to the sides, letting his people know, letting this furious man in front of him know, he wasn't taking up the challenge. Maxie and his crew watched as the lanky man picked up the girl, gently but quickly, and, as Maxie directed his second in command to lead them out, took her down the interior route Maxie and his crew had followed, them having bribed the guards. A perfectly simple job, all pear-shaped because of one idiot! Maxie swore to himself, family or not, never would he take on another one like that! Then, he proceeded to open the safe and get the necklace, plus a few other little odds and ends because, after all, seemed a shame to waste the effort and all that bribe money. With a sigh and shake of his head, he had his men carry out his cousin's husband; couldn't leave him here to be traced back, now could he? The blood, well, someone else could puzzle that out. He'd have to figure out how to make peace with Newkirk later; he just hoped the girl survived, otherwise . . .

He got her to the pub as quickly as he could, up the back way, from the alley to her room, laid her on the bed. For a moment, he couldn't move again, looking down at his hands, covered in her blood, at her face, blank in a way it never was; quiet, yes, even serene at times, but never blank. He grabbed up a towel and wiped his hands, turned and dashed out the door, down to the pub, looking wildly for Maude, for Marisol, heaving a deep sound of relief to see both, to have them see him and decide between the two of them to have Marisol come to see what the problem was. He found he had difficulty even telling her, and she grunted at him with annoyance, pausing though when she now saw the blood soaked into his dark jacket, traces on his hands, and the look of helpless panic on his face, then to follow his motions up to the room, to pause again at the doorway, looking at the girl laying on her stomach on the bed, head to one side, shirt now soaked in her blood, it starting to seep down below the waist of her trousers.

"Bloody 'ell, Peter, what 'appened?" she asked in shock.

He realized in that moment; he hadn't before, not really, "he was aiming for me, she," and he stopped, had trouble breathing even at the thought, "Mari, she stepped between us, on purpose it was, 'ad to 'av been, she was nowhere near us; she took the blade for me," and he thought he might not be able to go on breathing, not with that knowledge now facing him.

Marisol turned quickly, warned by the sound of his voice, "Peter, sit down, there, quickly before you pass out on me! I can't deal with you both!" and turned back to the girl. A closer look, pulling the shirt up and off, she could see that they had all been lucky, in between two ribs, to be sure, possibly glancing off one, high, but not quite where it should've hit the lung or anything else vital, nothing that couldn't be healed, though there was much more blood than there should have been. Frankly though, she though Peter had less color in his face than the girl did. She mentally gauged their respective heights and turned a shade or two paler herself; on the girl, it was a serious, but not deadly wound; on Peter, with his height, if they'd been facing the same way, the same wound would have most likely hit him in the right kidney, more likely fatal than not; if they'd been facing each other, a gut wound, with the same result. She had a feeling the girl had known this, though maybe not. Maybe she'd just tried to prevent Peter being hit at all; Marisol, along with Maude, had long since lost any illusions about how the girl felt about their friend.

She shook her head, and started wiping away the blood to get a better look at the wound with the cloth she had tucked under the band of her apron, watching Peter out of the corner of her eye. Hearing his breathing, {"Lord, 'e just might pass out!"} She knew how seriously he took his responsibility for the girl; she also knew how desperately he fought himself, his need for her. He refused to see her as the woman she was, struggled to make himself see only the child, a child Marisol doubted she'd been for at least a couple of years, probably more. What this would do to his turmoil, she hadn't a clue, but right now, she didn't have the time or the patience to deal with his angst; she needed his help, and so she demanded it, in a voice loud and clear, "Peter, get your arse in gear! I need 'ot water, bandages, salve. Then, get Maude up 'ere, and you take over the bar for 'er. You know 'ow to pull down a pint, and anything fancy anyone asks for you don't know, just give em a pint anyway! Do it, man! Now! And get rid of that jacket, it's covered in blood! And wash your 'ands, man!" and her harsh words and voice got through to him, and he did as she demanded, not asking how the girl was, not daring. 

Maude knew the trouble was major when he came in to relieve her at the bar, after taking up the hot water and the rest of what Marisol had sent him for. After all, most things she trusted Marisol could handle as well as she could, and rare it would be for something to need both of them. {"Last time it'd taken more than one of us, was back when Peter was hurt, and then it was me and the girl . . ."} and her eyes widened, looking at him questioningly, but seeing the wide eyed fear and desperation in his face, somehow knew, {"so it's her who's stepped into trouble this time!"} and she wasted no time, just handed over her place to him, and made her way hurriedly out through the door in the back and up the stairs. Swinging open the door to the girl's room, she inhaled sharply, at the sight of Marisol bending over the prone figure, more blood than Maude would have thought reasonable, from what seemed a knife wound in the upper right of the girl's body.

"What've we got?" she asked, not wasting time on inconsequentials.

Marisol glanced back at her, "knife tween the ribs, clipped one, I think, up 'igh, don't seem like it 'it the lung, but I don't like 'ow she's bleeding. Peter made it behind the bar alright? In a fair tizzy, 'e is over this."

Maude shrugged, "drawing the pints, well enough, but looking like 'e's the one who's lost all the claret." She moved over to the bed, "I'll take over for a bit; get me that kit on the kitchen shelf, the one in the red case, and some hot tea with sugar, Mari dear." Marisol hurried out after rinsing her hands in the basin of water and drying them, hoping she'd gotten all the blood off. Maude checked the wound, frowning at the bloody clothes, and easing her up, got the bloody trousers off her, and washed the remaining blood from her body. Covering her to the waist with a clean blanket, she sat back and sighed. "Well, lass, I was 'opin' you'd be teaching 'im to be a bit more cautious, not 'im teaching you 'ow to step into trouble," she grumbled, only to hear a small gaspy voice, "Well, I'm trying, Maudie, but with him, it's just not so easy, you know," followed by what was a very poor attempt at a chuckle.

Maudie shook her head, relieved that the girl was conscious and talking; Marisol came back in to hear that bit of conversation. "Peter says the knife was meant for 'im; she moved between."

Maude raised her brows, "on purpose, you mean?"

Marisol just shook her head, half in exasperation, "Well, acourse, what do you think?!" and they both looked down at the girl, Maude not knowing whether to scold her or thank her. Then Maude drew her head back, frowning, making note of the location of the wound, and her eyes opened wide, and her heart seized as she thought of the young man she loved like a son, and she looked back at Marisol, to see that the other woman had already figured out what the height difference would have meant. She laid a gentle hand on the girl's, no, she acknowledged to herself, the young woman's shoulder, "'e'll likely not thank you for this, you know, though we do; more likely, you'll get a right good scolding," she warned.

"That I know, well enough," was the resigned, almost amused answer; "better I sit through a scolding from him, than sit thru his funeral though. Maude, it was Maxie and his men; I didn't think they were that stupid, but he'd a new man with him, one that didn't seem to care that Maxie'd told them to stand down. He wasn't intending on a scare or a warning; don't think he had the brains to know there was more than one way of going about it even. Had his kill zone all planned out," to the raised eyebrows of the others, them forgetting more often than not that she'd some knowledge, some experience with such.

"Stubborn fool, he turned, tried to push me toward the window instead of dodging out of the way; stubborn fool, it was like he was trying to get himself killed!" They were becoming amused that now it was her who was getting angry, not at Maxie, not at Maxie's knife man, but at the stubborn, prideful man they all cared so deeply about. "He knows I can handle myself, had to have known that between us, facing that idiot, we could have taken him with no problem, and that none of the others would've taken part; Maxie was as shocked as we were. Instead, he turns his back on the knife, shoves me aside, just to try and give me time to get away. Then, there was no time, no room to attack, all I could do was block it. Stupid, stubborn fool!! What was he thinking??!"

Maude chuckled, "calm down, lassie, you'll get the bleeding started up again. You know what 'e was thinking, or rather, that more likely 'e wasn't thinking at all! 'e's got 'imself so convinced of that 'ain't I a sweet innocent darling' act of yours, even though 'e bloody well knows it's an act, 'as watched you switch in and out of it often enough, that 'e let 'imself forget all else. Yes, I know, 'e saw you take down Marrick and that crew, but when you were in danger, 'e just bloody well forgot all that. You know the lad, lets 'is 'eart rule 'is 'ead, no matter that 'e thinks of 'imself as being practical, logical, unemotional, even," and she shook her head again at that rather amazing bit of self-deception, and looked at Marisol, who was agreeing with everything she'd said. Caeide just gave a loud, disgusted exhalation, and settled back to let them tend her. Marisol found this all somewhat amusing; yes, Peter had forgotten how capable she was, but just who was it who let her heart rule her head, threw herself in front of a knife to prevent him being hurt. She looked up at Maude, and saw by the expression on the older woman's face that their thoughts were much the same, and together they shook their heads at these two.

Maude made her way back downstairs; it was almost time to close up, and Peter had never handled that before. For sure, he'd been there many a night at closing, but not behind the bar, not being in charge. He didn't look a lot better than the last time she'd seen him, she noted, and by the tight draw of his mouth, he was in no frame of mind to deal with the usual silliness her patrons pulled when she eased them out for the night. She shook her head; yes, the lass had the right of it for sure, stubborn fool he was, but one with more goodness and kindness than was usual in a man from this neighborhood, for all he worked so hard to not let anyone see that. {"Best send 'im up, let 'im see for 'imself that she's doing well, not come to any lasting 'arm,"} she thought to herself, and moved over behind the bar beside him. He looked down at her, the fear and apprehension evident in his eyes. "Go on up, laddie, she's awake for now, though I've given 'er something to make 'er sleep right soon. And get that look off your face, boy; she'll be fine. Go on, then," she urged him, giving him a gentle push toward the doorway. He wiped his hands on the bar towel, and moved away, slowly at first, but at a good clip by the time he passed through the doorway, and she could hear his footsteps moving almost into a run up the stairs. She shook her head, "Lord, I do wish she was older, or 'e was less stubborn, or at least, 'e'd more experience with the Clan, to know this age difference, 'er age, isn't as meaningful as 'e thinks. If ever there were two people needing to be together, it's those two!"

He paused in the doorway, seeing Marisol seated in the big armchair, sipping a cup of tea, the girl leaning back on raised pillows, eyes closed, pale, frown line across her forehead. He stepped in, and Marisol looked up at him, smiled reassuringly, "she's just resting, not sleeping yet, come along in and see for yourself." He did, and the girl opened her eyes and looked at him, a wry smile coming to her face.

"Well, I did say it wasn't the things we knew that'd send us a cropper, but the things we'd not know til we got there, didn't I?" with a tiny chuckle in the back of her throat. He moved in to sit, hesitantly, on the side of the bed, reached out his hand to move along her face, her jawline, then tip her chin up, so he could better took at her eyes. He thought the slight shudder that went through her, the drop of her eyelids was due to the wound; he didn't realize it was solely his touch that had done that. Marisol saw, though, and knew, and her thoughts were much the same as Maude had just had, down in the bar. {"So much love, so much passion, just waiting. I 'ope 'e doesn't wait too long, take the chance of losing all that."}

His immediate worry relieved, his temper started to flare, "Brat, just what the bloody 'ell. . ." only to see a similar temper come to life in her eyes, "Brat I may be, but at least I'm not bloody stupid enough to . . ." only to have Marisol stand up and loudly proclaim, "Enough! Neither of you are in shape, nor to my way of thinking, in any position to be discussing the right or wrong of this tonight! Peter, I've things to do; do ye think you can sit 'ere with 'er til she falls asleep, without getting 'er all roused up?? Caeide, you need to settle back and try to sleep; there'll be time enough for you two to fuss at each other tomorrow, which I'm more than sure you'll do. I'll be back soon."

They looked warily at each other, then a reluctant smile came to both of their faces. He moved the armchair closer, sat down, and, as if he couldn't help from touching her, laid his hand on top of hers on the covers. Her eyes caressed his face, and, as Maudie's herbs took effect, she drifted off to sleep, secure in the thought that he was safely beside her, his face the last thing in her sight, in her mind, the first in her dreams. He laid his head back, and the tension eased, and, when Marisol came quietly back into the room, she smiled to see them both asleep, his hand fast over hers. Tomorrow she knew they'd be fussing and fighting again, but for tonight, well, this seemed more the way it should be.


	8. That Little Black Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'final exam', so to speak, with Marisol involved that essential to any woman's wardrobe. Who knew a little black dress could have such a detrimental effect on a man's breathing, along with his peace of mind?

.  
She had been working with Marisol for ten months now, well almost, considering the time Marisol had spent recovering from the attack during the earliest days of her Internship. Marisol had started slowly, unsure how much this lass knew about things, well, to speak plainly, about men, and men and women, and variations and combinations in the interactions thereof, in general, and had been startled to find herself describing something rather hesitantly, afraid to shock, only to find the girl looking at her with amusement, and making some comment that let Marisol know she could indeed relax and not be so worried about that part of things. Book learning she had, indeed, and acceptance of things far beyond what Marisol expected; Caeide was an eager student, and she had come along quickly. It was awkward, true, that much of the training had to be done out of the sight of Peter, one of her other mentors, and couldn't be discussed in his hearing, but he was quite unreasonable in his opinions as to what she should and should not be learning. It was unfortunate in more ways than one, she admitted to herself ruefully, that he was so fixed on thinking her a child, when to her family, her Clan she was a woman grown, even though her years numbered only thirteen (well, almost fourteen now). Her mother had bonded at just fourteen, with her first babe coming within the year, after all, and it wasn't all that uncommon among her people. Still, Peter was adamant about how he saw her, and she didn't want to provoke him needlessly, so she and Marisol made a special effort to do her more intense training out of his sight.

It wasn't their fault, either, when that all came to naught. Marisol had warned him, "We're going to be at The Bull tonight; I need to see 'ow she behaves, what she can accomplish on her own. You'll just think you 'ave to interfere if you're there, and she's likely to lose her focus if she knows you're there, so you need to keep your distance. Just stay the bloody 'ell away, and let us do what needs to be done, you stubborn git!" 

He'd been sufficiently offended by her attitude that he'd figured on doing just as she said. {"Let 'em do what they want; Marisol's a knowing one, they'll be fine, and they don't want me there, so fine! I just won't get in their way!"} He was pouting, not that he'd admit it, though all three of the women recognized the signs, and shook their heads with a sigh. Caeide was also amused, mostly at herself; how could anything as ridiculous as a grown man pouting also be so endearing? She always had the urge to use a finger to wipe away that frown, and kiss those sullen lips back into their more normal smile, not that THAT was something she could let him know!

He made it thru the evening, glancing at his watch periodically. {"Surely they've 'ad time for all the testing Marisol 'ad in mind. Maybe they've run into some trouble."} After muttering to himself for awhile, he laid aside his cards, shrugged into his jacket and made his way over to The Bull. Entering carefully, trying to spot Marisol and Caeide without them spotting him, he was troubled when he found the first, but not the latter. {"Surely she'd not 'ave let the lass go off somewhere out of sight; she'd know better than that!"} He kept searching the crowd, no sight of his protege, and Marisol still didn't seem concerned. He took stock of the patrons, many of whom he knew; though he usually stuck to Maude's pub for his usual, he spent some time in most of the ones in the area, to pick up gossip and make contacts. There were a few new ones in tonight, he noted, a burly red-haired man at the tables, seemed above board enough; an older gent, too upscale to fit in around here, "{wonder what brought 'im to the East End; it's not his usual place, that's plain."} A couple, three new women working the crowd, but no sign of the red-headed Caeide. He was getting really annoyed at Marisol because of that. :{Unless she'd finished the testing early and sent the lass 'ome, but she'd not 'ave let 'er on the streets at night alone surely, even if she 'ad decided to stay on for a bit 'erself."} 

He watched, wondering if he should walk over and talk to Marisol about all of this, ask her where the girl was, when she gathered up her wrap to leave. She was halfway to the door when one of the other women, dark haired, a rather fetching thing, dressed in a formfitting black dress and heels, detached herself from the man she was flirting with, and followed her out into the street. As she passed Peter, who was standing in the shadows, she started, looked around, sensing him, caught sight of him with her eyes widening in shock, perhaps dismay. Peter stood still, not even breathing; {"no, they'd not 'ave done this! Marisol would NOT 'ave done this to me,"} though why the thought of anything being done TO HIM should be in his mind, he couldn't figure out.

He was furious, "well, I've a perfect right to be, 'aven't I?!"} He trailed the two all the way back to Maudie's place, keeping a careful distance between himself and them. He had things that he fully intended to say to each of them, but the middle of the street wasn't the place for it. Marisol looked back once or twice; obviously Caeide had let her know they'd been found out. He was too far away to read the expression on her face, but it seemed to him like she might actually be amused, he thought he'd heard her laugh at least once. Well, she'd not be laughing when he got through with her, that was for sure!

They went in the rear door, up the back stairs, and with a brief, "We'll talk in the morning, ducks," Marisol swiftly made her way to her own room, hastily shutting the door behind. {"Yes,"} Peter thought, {"that was definitely a laugh I just 'eard. Well, she'll wait til the morning; for now, I've a few things to say to that youngster!"} as he moved over to her door and pushed it open.

His breath caught in his throat; she stood near the window, just enough light showing to let him see her form, but not her face. She'd taken off the dark wig, shaken out her own dark red hair, and had the black dress half off one shoulder, leaning down to remove one high heeled shoe. She looked up, not really startled, since she'd half been expecting him, though not this quickly; she'd hoped to be changed into other clothes before he burst in. How did he make such heat build up in her middle, without even a word? Wasn't even like he was looking very friendly; if anything, it looked like he was deciding whether he could get away with strangling her without anyone knowing. She moved forward, pulling the shoulder of the dress back into place, forward out of the shadows. Now he could see her face and the rest of her better, and his nostrils flared and his body stiffened. He took a slow pace forward, then another, and another, til he was only an arms length away, and looked again, slowly, taken in everything that was to be seen. There seemed to be something wrong with his breathing; she though absently that she hoped he wasn't coming down with a cold again.

"You'll take that bloody dress and those bloody shoes and put them somewhere outta the way, and not take them out again, nor any like them, for the rest of your time 'ere. Do you 'ear me? If I see or 'ear of you in anything like that, you'll be on your way back 'ome before you've time to do more but blink." She looked at him, wonderingly; his voice was that deep raspy whiskey and cigarette voice he usually only had early in the morning (or, she'd often thought ruefully, as if he was just entering or leaving a lover's bed). He stood still for one more moment, then all but ran from the room. "And lock the bloody door!" she heard, before she heard his rapid footsteps departing down the hall and then the stairs. From Marisol's room, she heard more laughter. As for herself, she locked the door (though if she'd thought there was any chance of him returning, she'd perhaps not have), continued undressing and slipped into the cold bed. Her dreams that night were vivid, and featured a somewhat panicked lanky Brit, not to her great surprise.


	9. Letter - The Shadow of His Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents of a letter from Caeide to her cousin Cally, who was undergoing her own internship, hers in Russia with a auburn-haired beauty by the name of Marya Parmanova (yes, THAT ONE!). While Caeide had described Maude, and Marisol, and any number of others from the East End, she'd been suspiciously vague about her mentor, Peter Newkirk. Finally, in response to several inquiries, she pens this letter.

.  
You've asked me to describe him. It's not easy, but I'll try. Tall than me, certainly, but not so tall as to be uncomfortable to stand and talk to him. Rather fair of skin, with dark brown hair, just a touch of curl at the nape of the neck, wears his sideburns longer than I've seen anyone do. Blue-green eyes, though in the right light, in the right mood, they can drift to one or the other extreme. Rangy, a bit thinner than he probably should be. A smooth, rich voice, strong Cockney accent, but he can change that to any of a dozen, so's you'd not be able to tell the false from the true. Strong, capable hands, well cared for, of course, in his line. But all of that, that could all apply to a thousand men or more, couldn't it? And none of that, even put together, really describes him.

So, in answer to your question, I tried to think of what makes him him, so to speak, and I think the thing I'd recognize him by no matter what, is his smile. Or rather, his smiles. For he has more smiles than anyone I've ever known, each one special in some way.

There's his smile when he gets ready to start the day. The one where, if there's a mirror handy, he uses it to get the smile in place; if there's no mirror, he puts it on by habit, I suppose. You see it, the very conscious pulling it into place, the 'well, and aren't I a right good lad, capable, of course, should you need a job done, but one you'd not quarrel with, or suspect of any wrong-doing, or one who'd be likely to 'ave any dark secrets, one you'd not mind 'aving a good gossip with, or perhaps a pint.' His eyes change with that smile, too, become less telling, less revealing, in fact, revealing nothing he doesn't intend to reveal. I think of it as his basic mask of a smile.

There's his smile as he's bumping into a mark, a congenial, slightly distracted, 'got someplace to be, didn't see you there, ever so sorry, mate,' smile. The smile that lets him be three or more streets over before the mark discovers his wallet or his watch has bade farewell.

There's the smile he gives Maude or Marisol sometimes, but never where they can see him, a smile of rare tenderness, like he's acknowledging just how much they bring to his oddly solitary life. For thought he is a very sociable man, needs his mates around him to fully be comfortable, still, there is an aloneness at his core. He and his sister are close, and I think she perhaps touches that core, but he looked out for her for so long, and I don't think he's had anyone look out for him, except Maude and Marisol, and it shows. It seems he EXPECTS to be the one doing the looking after, the protecting, and doesn't seem to recognize it even possible to be going both ways.

There's the smile he gives when he looks down at the cards he's drawn and is thinking something like "oh, bloody 'ell, what am I supposed to make of this lot??!" There's the smile he gives when he looks down at the cards and is thinking, "no way is anyone going to get better, so the question is how long do I let the pot gather before I take it," and the really funny thing, Cally, there isn't a hair's difference between those two smiles, not even half a hair, but I can tell now, which is which.

There's the smile he gives when he's tried to teach you something and you've blown it, time after time, then, suddenly, you've got it! The smile he gives you after you repeat that success three or four times straight through to show it's not a fluke, a smile of such congratulations, and pride, and shared joy in the accomplishment, that you are eager for the next challenge, to prove yourself, just to see that smile again.

There's the smile he gives when he's outmanned, outgunned, and outfoxed, the one where he knows he's going to end up bruised and battered, that is, if he's really lucky. It's sort of a combination "fuck you" and "I can take anything you hand out, you bloody bastard!" That's the one I'm half afraid they'll bury him with, for he walks into trouble more often than most walk into a bakery or a church. Truly, if there's trouble, he's there, it's as simple as that!

There's that smile he gives, to a blonde at the bar, to a ribbon clerk, to a vegetable seller, to someone dealing cards, to even visiting toffs, I know of a Duchess once!; a smile so engaging, so full of promises and confidence that the promises can and will be fulfilled; the smile that tells me I might as well plan on having my early morning lessons with Maude, since it might take him longer to make his way home, since he'll not be sleeping in his own bed that night.

Then, there's that smile. The one you hardly ever see, the one that's not really a smile, more a shadow of a smile. It's one that comes, sometimes, when the day has been just too hard, too long. When he's tired, cold, wet, probably bearing some bruises, just all out miserable. When he's finally been able to get into dry clothes, find a spot near the fire, in a place where he doesn't have to worry so much about guarding his back. When you've placed a bit of food and drink at his hand, when he finally relaxes back just a bit. Then, if you are standing close enough, at just the right angle, in just the right light, you can see it. It never touches his lips, even; it just barely touches his eyes, not a smile, just a shadow of a smile. That's the smile that would be worthy of a hero's quest, to bring that out fully, to have it shine not just from those eyes, but to finally rest upon his lips. And not just on those occasions when he allows himself that rare bit of comfort, but often. Yes, that would be a task worthy of a life's work.

I don't know if that helps, Cally, I mean help to pick him out of a crowd, but that is what I'll remember, all the rest of my days.


	10. A Celtic Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caeide muses on how her Internship turned so unbelievably complicated, mostly due to Peter Newkirk, that supposedly 'simple and basic' man who turned out to be a bundle of complications all in and of himself. We learn more about Clan O'Donnell and their own complicated ways, though they would contest that description, certainly, believing themselves to be quite simple and basic at the core themselves, well, considering just how ancient they truly were! And we learn more than a little about one Peter Newkirk as well, things that perhaps help explain certain behaviors that more than puzzle his later barracks mates.

Yes, I'd been sat down and told of the dangers of the East End; my mentors were quite firm about that, that I not go wandering around unawares. Well, my family had no illusions they'd been sending me to an easy place; very few of the Internships were free of risk; in fact, not any that I'd heard of, though the risks varied, of course. They weren't meant to be free of risk, you know? These were Internships, new opportunities for growth and learning, challenges, not mindless vacations, not that I've ever had one of those, but just saying. And even the ones you'd hear of that sounded like they'd be easy? Those were the ones to be most on your guard with, to my way of thinking. Well, those who came back and told the stories, seems some of the risks in those places were just as bad, just more sneaky-bad, rather than out-in-the-open bad. I'd choose dealing with street thugs any day over dealing with aristos who try to ply you with wine and absinthe and soft crocodile smiles, and don't even get me started on an Internship that required you to mix with Society! Fair barmy the lot of them, and dangerous in their own right! In the later years my sisters would tell me stories about those they ran up against, and oh my goodness! We didn't choose where we went for Internship, of course; our Leader, the Grandmother did the choosing, based on input from the Council and the Far-Seekers, and the Skryers, and even they said it was all rather vague, just impressions and hints of where each of us would learn what we needed to learn, find what needed to be found, what was meant to be found to let us grow into what we were meant to be. Those of us who were being sent out, we took it in stride; well, really, what else were we to do? This was meant to be a year of learning, of growing, AND hopefully, coming home alive and reasonably intact, ready and more able to continue with the next stage of our lives. That was enough to concentrate on, without questioning whether we should have been sent to one particular place rather than another. At least, it certainly was for me. And, in looking back, they could hardly have chosen better for me than to send me to the East End of London to study with Maude and Marisol at the start of my thirteenth year.

Well, the East End was certainly one of the out-in-the-open risky places, but with its fair share of sneaky-bad too; there were seemingly an unlimited number of ways to come a cropper around here. Street thugs and scavengers, drunken sailors and toughs, bad liquor pretending to be something other than poison and hashish masquerading as tobacco, bobbies with something to prove and not slow to use their batons to make their point, the procurers who searched the streets for merchandise for the brothels, rival gangs to get crosswise of - all that in addition to it being a place where the coal tars left the air thick and nasty, where a penny had to stretch to serve as three, where the water could go vile at any time, and where the river waited impatiently for her due tribute. No, not an easy place, to live or to visit, but more than a trifle interesting, a place with skills aplenty worth learning. "Listen and watch and learn, so you can stay out of trouble, stay safe," I heard, time after time. I found it rather amusing that one of my mentors in particular, Peter Newkirk, made such an issue of it, the 'staying out of trouble', the 'staying safe', considering all Maude and Marisol had told me of him and his aptitude for walking into trouble without having to make any effort at all. "Like iron shavings to a magnet, him and trouble," Maude had sighed. Well, the next year would prove that to me, beyond any doubt. In fact, I'd become a true believer within a few weeks! And within those few weeks, the circle was somehow initiated. Funny thing was, I'd never heard it described as a circle, love I mean, yet, in retrospect, that is exactly what it was, at least for me. A Celtic circle, simple at first glance, yet not simple, endlessly intricate and complex. One line leading to another, then to another, circling back, crossing, til you're so caught up in the detail you lose sight of the whole til you stand back and you see, and it hits you with full strength as to what it truly is.

At the beginning, of course, Peter WASN'T one of my mentors, not yet, just Maude and Marisol, like the family had arranged. Peter was their friend, sort of a son to Maude, a brother to Marisol, or so it seemed to me, the way they spoke of him with a goodly mixture of fondness and exasperation. Kinda like you could hear me talk about my brothers, especially my oldest one, Michael, you know? Him being the one I was constantly debating whether he needed a good swift kick or a hard embrace? I hadn't even met Peter when the first danger of the East End sprang upon me and I didn't have to go looking for it. Marisol had put herself up against a child-trafficker, causing him to lose what he considered his rightful goods, two pretty little blond twins, a boy and a girl of about seven, destined in his mind for the specialty brothels in Manchester. He came looking for payback when Marisol and I were sitting in Maude's pub during off hours, planing out my assignments; what he GOT was The Warrior. That was the first time she manifested for me, though not the last time. She's not like my Wolf, that I can call when I want to; she has a mind of her own. She didn't come often, through the years, and not usually when it was just me needing protecting; seems she left that to me, though she made an exception a time or two. But when someone I cared about needed protecting, more than just what I was capable of giving, well, there were a couple, three times she showed up, and once, well, once she managed something I swear I'd never heard of as even being possible - sort of a long-term, long-distance overlooking, though that's a different story. Took a right toll on both of us, that did, for sure, and I've the scars to prove it, and I'm pretty sure her appearing so rarely after that was due to the strain. Still, what she did, it kept them alive, Peter and Andrew, and she has my eternal gratitude for that! And that first time, well, she was most fierce, taking down Merrick and two of his men. I took down the first, with a knife-throw, though, so it wasn't as though I was totally helpless; don't think that; helpless is not the word that would best describe me, no. (I'm not sure what that word would be, though Peter says it's not a word, but a phrase, "without fail"; I think that's rather nice, don't you? And nicely ambiguous, I particularly like that part! And truthfully, I don't go around asking many to come up with an appropriate word, either; I guarantee there's many who'd come up with ones not too flattering, not that I'm overly concerned about Outlander opinions for the most part.). And she would have taken down the other two of his men, if Peter's friends hadn't taken care of that little chore. Still, it was a memorable scene, I'm told; I didn't remember as much of it as you might think, the Warrior sort of pushing me to the background. That was my first meeting with Peter, me and my Warrior still intermingled, seeing that tall dark-haired young man with the unusual blue-green eyes and look of concern on his face, stretching out his hands to me. My Warrior seemed to recognize him, and was startled to see him here; I was just, well, perhaps intrigued. He seemed to be someone, no not that I knew, but someone I wanted, needed to know. Marisol had been hurt early on in the fight, and since she was laid up for awhile, Maudie had suggested Peter take on the Mentoring, if my family was willing, and they were. I have to admit I put in my two-cents worth strongly in favor of the idea, which was unusual for an Intern to do, and they were full aware of that, but the Far-Seekers agreed this was the right thing, though not without risks of its own. Well, we've never been a family to run from risk, as you might have figured out. So the first part of the circle, the seeing, came about.

Only a few weeks later, there I was, as Wolf, trailing my 'stay out of trouble, stay safe' mentor down the dark alleys of the East End, him acting like a total simpleton out to get his throat cut. This was the first time I'd Changed since I'd been here, figuring trying to blend a big red wolf into the background around here, a place few kept dogs of any kind, particularly the large ones, well, that wouldn't be so easy. Still, when I saw him in such a state, doing something so foolish, I just had to follow, to be sure HE 'stayed safe', and I figured I could manage that better in that form. Well, I managed, right enough; I think I managed more than I intended, as I sat there on that wide step in the moonlight, his arms around me, his tears dampening my fur; perhaps my inhaling his scent so deeply, my licking away his tears, trying so hard to comfort him, perhaps that had a bearing on what happened; maybe not, though, thinking of how my Warrior recognized him, welcomed him. Perhaps it was just what was meant to be. And the circle continued its path, now with the caring being added to the seeing.

It was odd, in some ways, the interaction between me and my mentors. Maudie, she had more of an idea of what, who I really was, and even more so after Peter handed her that bundle of fur he'd collected off his clothes that night. Seems she'd been intending to ask me about that scrap of fur she'd found on my window sill and cloak the morning after anyway. She'd heard the old tales, put two and two together; but she didn't tell, didn't scold. It had an impact though, knowing what I'd done and why, and she treated me more as an adult, though still very much her student. Marisol, now, she knew what I'd told her, and what Maudie had confirmed, the females of my family are considered full grown at my age; my mother formally Bonded at the end of her Internship year when she turned fourteen, had my oldest brother within months thereafter, and that by no means uncommon. She treated me like a younger sister, though not a child by any means, and was quite willing to teach me all she knew, all a young woman would need to know to follow in her rather talented and unique footsteps. Frankly, Peter was rather appalled at both of them, though mostly at Marisol. He thought what she was teaching me was very inappropriate; to his mind, thirteen was thirteen, and no age to be learning such things, much less putting them into practice. No, learning to flirt, temp a fellow in a con, dressing to seduce, knowing just how to manipulate a man into doing what you needed or wanted him to do for whatever reason; to his mind, none of that was appropriate, and he had no hesitation in saying so. He had no hesitation about the things HE was teaching me, of course, diddling a deck of cards, opening safes, picking pockets, a bit of forgery, impersonations and disguises - but those things lay outside that uncomfortable place in his mind, the place that might have labeled me 'available female'. No, that was something he'd not accept me being, and while I was finding that increasingly regretable, he was most determined. In some ways, it was obvious this was going to be a long year!

Still, I accepted his stance, and even understood it once I really thought about this new world I'd ended up in. It was, as I've said, a dangerous world, and some of the dangers could come from places you'd not expect. So, it was important that the people knew each other, knew what they were capable of, knew when and how they could be trusted. From my conversations with each of them, my mentors, that became more and more obvious. There were some around there who could be trusted, flat out trusted. There were some who could be trusted, but not when they had drink in them. Some could be trusted in some ways, but not where coin was in question, or if someone put pressure on them, like the bobbies or the bullies. Others could be trusted with your money or your possessions, but not with your wife, or maybe your daughter or son; with some even the little ones, the tikes, were at risk. Others, well, some you were just best in not trusting at all, at any level. Most here knew all that, knew when they had to be cautious; it was like a giant puzzle board, and anything that changed the way they saw the various pieces, well, that was dangerous all around and made everyone uneasy, disturbed the natural balance. So when the Brangle Street lads braced me, me still in my rather androgynous clothes, my hair tightly braided high under my boy's cap, taunting me about what Peter and Marisol were teaching me? That was a danger, all right, and more to Peter and Marisol than to me. I wasn't afraid of these lads; oh, I'd take some bruises taking them down, most likely; I could hardly treat them like I had Merrick and his villianous crew, and in many ways it's harder to take someone down without causing real damage than it is to go for an immediate kill. But I could hardly let their words stand unchallenged, that Marisol was taking me (and my sister!) to bed, teaching us bed arts perhaps, or maybe just taking her pleasure; that Peter was doing the same with both of us. Yes, I know; I hadn't mentioned having any of my sisters with me. Probably because I didn't, and them being too young to be here anyways, me being the oldest of the girls. See, they'd seen me in my current get-up, and also had had a glimpse when I was dressed in at least a rather more feminine way, though I'd never been one for frills and folderols, and heard talk of the lass staying with Marisol. I admit, their grasp of the whats and hows of what Peter could be teaching me was fair-on accurate, if rather crudely and graphically described, IF Peter had been inclined toward young boys OR young girls for that matter, (which he most certainly was not!), or if he'd let himself forget what he saw as the responsibilities and restraints of his being my mentor (which he took quite seriously, I assure you!); them expecting me to demonstrate various aspects to and with them in that opening to the alley, well, that was quite optimistic of them, as well as quite misguided. If I was going to get the knees of my trousers torn and dirty, it'd be my own way, thank you very much, not pleasuring that bunch of young rascals, or allowing them to take their pleasure with me! I admit I was more than a mess when I walked back into Maude's pub, to face the three of them, but I was a triumphant mess. That was the important thing, don't you think? I'd made an impression on the lads, taught them what I thought of their words. And the next day, the father of their leader came to call, and he and I came to terms as well. I used a bit of what Marisol taught me, but a goodly portion of what my own family had taught me, and it was a high compliment when, after he left, Marisol told me, "don't know why you need me to teach you! As sweet a bit of work as I've seen, the way you charmed that bruiser!" But it was worth the effort, it was. Cam Madison let the lads know they were to stop talking rubbish about me, AND Peter and Marisol, and with his support, and that of a few others, all that foolishness died down. Well, it had to be done; such talk was dangerous to them, could lead to all kinds of mischief being laid at their doorstep, all unwarranted.

And they didn't need that. Peter, in particular, did NOT need that. It hadn't taken me long to see that Peter had a liking for the ladies; he never hid that, certainly, nor the fact that the ladies had more than a liking for him as well. What he did NOT brunt about, was that he also had a liking for the blokes. That was something not so well accepted, and could have led him to all kinds of trouble. There were even laws against it, though that I found most strange. Maude and Marisol knew, of course, but made no mention of it to me nor to anyone else. When they finally realized I knew, I think they were shocked that I WASN'T shocked. But, in my family, in my Clan, that's not something to be remarked on, particularly, or wondered at. Some liking those of the other sex, some liking those of the same, some liking both - that was just the start of interactions in my people. Though it wasn't so much as liking one or the other or both; it was just who you were drawn to, the person you wanted to spend your life with, and that sometimes being a surprise to all concerned. And the Bondings? It's not just two, not always; often there are three or sometimes, though more rarely, more. It's not something out of the ordinary, you know? We have words for all the different Bondings, but none of them are perjoratives, just a sort of shorthand for explaining what might not be so obvious to the outside, a way to avoid misunderstandings. And those words indicate only the number in the pairings and the relationships, not distinguishing male or female, because really that just didn't seem relevant. Anyway, with Peter, he was open about the ladies, discreet about the blokes, and I saw no signs of any serious attachment to either, not during the year I was there. Perhaps because he tried to keep his feelings to himself, tried sometimes to pretend he didn't have such foolish things at all; perhaps because of his memories of his father, who was a right old bastard from anything I heard and did more damage than should be allowed in a fair world. Who knows, but I found it sad, that someone with obviously so much to give, would feel he had to shy away from that giving. Of course, I hadn't been there for long when I realized I wanted to be the one to receive what he had to give, wanted to give in return all I had within me. Remember now, he was the one adamant about me being just a child, to be treated like a child, certainly not a woman. That did not mean I WAS a child, not by any means. That did NOT make things go easier, I can tell you. I never would have guessed that the biggest danger I'd face that year, would be the danger to my heart. Ah, such sweet danger! After the caring had come the knowing. Now, now came the wanting.

It didn't come quietly either, or slowly. Each advance was like a knife thrust, a hammer's blow, unexpected in its timing, brutal in its force. Two months in, Maudie needed a good sleep-in, so I took over making the coffee for Peter's all night poker game he ran in her pub, all behind locked shutters due to the closing laws. I walked in, that early morning, tray with coffee pot and cups in my hands and the blow fell with full force! I can still picture him in my mind, sitting there in that cutaway undershirt that showed far too much of his rather tempting self. Truthfully, I never had really understood the concept, if I must say so, and had told Michael so many a time when he'd wear one. The cutaways, if you don't remember them, were incut so far on the shoulders and chest,cut so low on the sides under the arms, as well as the front, it almost seemed like a mockery of a garment, it covering so little. Certainly I'd seen my brother in such attire and thought it pure foolishness, but somehow, this was really very different. Instead of appearing just plain foolish, this was, well, suggestively enticing. Certainly with Michael I'd never wondered just how far those dark curls extended, how dense or how sparse they might be when they ended. I found myself wondering how sensitive to my touch would Peter be if I traced my fingertips along those sleek lines of his shoulders and sides, the curve of his neck, . . . If a tiny kiss and touch of my tongue behind his ear would make him shudder or laugh. Unshaven, hair falling over his forehead, eyes half closed against the smoke and the lack of sleep, that inevitable cigarette dangling from his pouting lips, he was the pure essence of temptation! I felt myself melting, mind, heart, stomach, and also in places I'd never experienced melting before! Poor man, it's a good thing he couldn't read my mind! That picture, and the sound of his voice snarling at me in his early morning rasp, that all smoke and whiskey rasp, formed the basis of many a fantasy, in the coming weeks, the coming years. Maudie found me in the kitchen after that, and she realized just what had happened. She gave me some good advice, too, and after due thought, I decided to take on the early morning coffee duty for the rest of my year. If he was going to prey on my dreams, since he had placed himself off limits in all other ways, I might as well enjoy the visuals while I could! Somehow, I would have thought that, the lusting, would have been the beginning of the circle, but, no, it came far after the beginning. Perhaps, yes certainly, that was the right place for it; it coming later, it made it easier to accept the truth, the honesty of that circle as it grew in complexity.

There were other things, of course, some big, some small; it wasn't just a physical thing, you know. Yes, I found myself lusting after him, which was a first for me; but more and more new layers, new designs were formed, some variations on what had already been there. More and more I found myself liking him, respecting him, genuinely caring about him and his wellbeing, which I thought rounded everything out nicely. And some of the things I discovered? Well, many were things he'd never admit to, to me or probably to anyone else. Like discovering he was the one who slipped a bit extra into the till in the kitchen when he knew we were running short, or who left a few food tins in odd places during lean times, those to be discovered and exclaimed over, only to have him scoff at the very idea he'd been the one responsible, teasing about Maudie getting so distracted as to forget to put things in their proper place. Some times this would happen after he had a run at the cards, but sometimes? Well, sometimes not, and I could see he was skimping on himself to make that happen. He was thin enough such skimping was more than evident; it wasn't as if he had even a pound or two to lose comfortably, and if it came to food or cigarettes, well, there was no secret which would win out. When funds were short, he'd 'forget' to stop for lunch or dinner; he'd skip his pint, or limit it to one instead of two, but the cigarettes, they were like mother's milk to him. I couldn't imagine they blended well with the coal tars that permeated the air around here, but they seemed to steady him, and it was hardly my place to chide him. We all have something we lean on, whether we admit it or not, you know. Still, when I realized he was shorting himself to help us? When I realized that, I made sure to tuck a bit extra into that tin as well, so he'd not have to, at least during this year I was here. I tried to skimp on my meals as well, but Maudie had plenty to say about that, and reluctantly I could only go so far before calling her wrath down on my head. And I could only claim an uneasy stomach or head so many times before she wanted to be poking hot sweet tea and tonics down me, which rather defeated the purpose, you know, as well as made her worry about my health. Anyway, I had an emergency stash, but that had to be kept for just that, an emergency (and the time came when I called down blessings on those who'd provided me with those funds, so desperately needed were they!). Still, there was the small weekly stipend I received, and I made it a game, to see how little of that I really needed to use, setting the rest aside for when that 'kitty' needed feeding. Like Peter, though, I tried to make sure no one saw me doing that feeding. Being able to do that, just seemed to tighten the bonds I felt with all three of them, and that felt good, like we were a family, you know? I was even able to slide a few items onto the staples shelf in Peter's flat without him noticing, nudging them to the back shadows so he might, hopefully, think he'd just overlooked them. It was by accident that I found out he was the one dropping off that bit extra of coal to the half-wit who lived in that tiny cubbyhole of a room in his building, as well as a fairly regular bundle of food goods. I was close enough that first time, on my way to take him a message from Maudie, that when he turned he saw me, and flushed and snapped out something or other, complaining about 'lackwits who leave things laying about at their doors for others to trip over, instead of taking them inside where they belong!', him picking the lock, shoving that rickety door open and shoving the items inside, pulling the door closed sharply, and locking it back, all thinking to make me not realize. And, knowing how that was important to him somehow, I played along, played the blind fool, all the while thinking that for someone who felt the cold as badly as he did, fair ached with it, to short himself that portion of coal, never mind the food, well, it painted a far different picture than he liked others to see. He seemed to think showing that small kindness was the same as showing a weakness, and in the East End, perhaps it was. I kept my smile and fond shake of the head to myself til I got back to my own snug room. It was important to him not to be found out, and I respected that, and made sure not to betray him. There would be only one person I'd discuss that with, and that someone was far from these mean streets, someone who would never venture here. So now, after the lusting, came the other pieces to fall into place, swiftly, without hesitation, one after the other, sometimes so quickly that I did not even truly see them before they were there, firmly linked to those that had come before.

It was six months in when I admitted to myself, finally, that I was totally lost, totally his, for good or for ill. He'd turned up missing, one dark, wet and cold night, and I'd gone looking, with Maude's blessing, only to find him injured, wounded and being set upon by the scavengers that prowled these alleyways. After scaring them off, I got him back to my room, and cared for him til Maudie could get free from the bar downstairs. Between getting him stripped and dry, cleaning and treating his wound, getting him into a dry shirt that had belonged to Maudie's brother and tucked into my bed? Later, helping to care for him, singing to him or telling stories during those long nights he couldn't rest, belaboring him til he'd take the herbs and medicines he needed? (And yes, I was more than happy to have an emergency stash then, for we needed it desperately to get him what he needed, such being very dear as well as being hard to find!) Well, somewhere in there, everything just sort of clicked into place; somewhere in there, I sat down and admitted to myself, I was no longer Ta'l, one who was not yet Bonded, but was now Ta-shea, one of those rare occurrances where there is a Bond on one side, but not on the other. And I can tell you, that was a most disconcerting thing to realize, a thing that sent my entire life in a direction I was unprepared for. Well, I would have hardly expected it, you know; a Ta-shea Bond was hardly a common occurrance, came to my Clan perhaps once in many generations. I shake my head now, thinking of my life: Ta'l to Ta-shea; after many years, Ta-shea to Ta-Ket, and then Ta-Duan, and rapidly to Ta-Beart and finally to Ta-Shaen, a full triad bonding. That was quite a trip, each leg of it containing more surprises than I'd ever have expected, each most rewarding in its own right, each bearing its own costs. And, although I certainly would never have thought it at the time, it was perhaps best Peter was an Outlander, one with firm ideas of what was and was not appropriate. For if he had, like my father had done, given in to the Bond and gone with me to Clan lands, and set up life with me then, he'd possibly never have met HIM, our own dear love, and how different our lives would have been. Different, and perhaps not nearly so sweet, for our mutual love is the one who transformed us through the last three stages; the one who Bonded to Peter, then to me, so that we are now all Bonded tightly one to each other. You have only to look at the faces of our sons to see that, most clearly. And Maudie and Marisol? Perhaps they wouldn't have joined us, either, and we all would have missed so much of what was to come. And coming to me earlier, well, that would not have kept him from the War, not when his mother country, his England, was in danger. And, perhaps, he might not have been able to return to me, who knows. Changing just one piece of a time line, who knows what impact that will have. It is too much for me to think on, and so I try not to; try to focus on what IS, the strong reality of what we have now.

Dangers there were, many and varied, and some struck out at Maude and Marisol and Peter and me individually. We fought back, tended each other as needed, protected each other as best we could. That formed the habit, and even years later, when we were finally reunited, the habit was firmly in place. Most of those dangers were from without, some few from within, and still we fought, shoulder to shoulder, to the best of our abilities. I drew away the bobbies and the bully boys when someone gave the snitch on a job he was running, thus saving him from a beating or worse. He pulled me out from under two brawny sailors who thought I should be their whore for the night, and for once, I hadn't done anything to attract their attention, simply a chance encounter in the hallway of the pub when I was fetching more sandwiches from the kitchen. Still, you can believe I heard about it, and aplenty! We all stood between Maude and the Dason brothers that thought to rule in our corner of the East End, undermining him already in that position, thinking Maude should pay protection to them in addition to what she was already paying Frankie V. Whether we would have been able to hold out, who knows, for Frankie V won that battle, and was not forgiving to those who thought to take him out of the picture. He'd found out who were hold-outs, who caved, and he gave Maude an approving nod, though still taking his share, of course. Approval didn't mean soft, not in the East End. Still, was certainly better than the harsh words and cuffs given to those who'd thought to cave to the Dason's demands. Marisol showed up with bruises, a split lip and sore ribs; a toff who had been slumming and had thought to take whatever he wanted, had a midnight visit and, well, let's just say he thought twice about visiting the East End again; provided, of course, he was ever able to put two thoughts together again, and I'd not bet on it, seeing the drubbing Peter gave him; yes, I followed to guard his back - what, did you think it could be otherwise? And no, he didn't realize til after it was done, and there was another lecture I received. Bless him, he was the only one of us four who thought it had any impact, would disuade me from doing exactly the same should I think it necessary! Another blaggard thought to change Marisol's "No" to a "Yes" by way of a knife; I returned the knife to him in such a way he decided to accept her answer, all with a polite, if patently insincere, apology from him for mistaking matters; well, it is hard to make a sincere apology when whimpering and bleeding, I suppose, clutching his privates all the while. Then there was the time I stepped between Peter and a knife. I still say it was his own fault, trying to protect me to the point of putting himself at dire risk; what did he think, I couldn't handle one fool with a knife? And with him pushing me out of the way, that put him in line for a fatal blow, him being taller, which I was certainly not going to let happen. Still, again, I got the lectures, but this time he got a few back, which I think rather disconcerted him. Maude and Marisol were half-amused, I think, him not expecting me to do either, take the blade or talk back to him. THEY'D known quite well it was only to be expected, and none of us couldn't understand why HE'D not expect it.

Next time around, it was him again, running afoul of a band of bully boys hired by the Outterling brothers to protect a shipment coming through the East End and wanting to deliver a warn-off to him and anyone else, and of all the foolishness, for he had no intention of trying for it in the first place! Even in other times, it was not his usual game, and even if it had been, Peter had signed off on doing anything of that sort for this year, the payment from my family for his mentoring making up that difference somewhat, and needing to stay fairly clear in order to DO the mentoring, all against a larger final payment at the end of the year. Again, it was Frankie V who took that shipment, and when the bullies came around again, it was obvious Peter hadn't been part of it, still limping around with the beating they'd given him, though it took some persuasion to make them leave without doing further harm. Amazing how persuasive a loaded revolver can be, and when its three? Most persuasive. If the other neighborhood lads hadn't seen and taken a hand first time around, they'd have killed him, tis my belief, and it was that belief that led me to follow them and find out their own lair, that and the vile threats they made against not just Peter, but the pub, Maude and Marisol and me. True, there will be other bullies out there for hire, but not those particular bullies. Shame about that, some might think, but such things do happen around here, and the river gets hungry if she doesn't get her due now and again, you know. Least that's what I've heard. Better such as them doing the feeding rather than some poor soul down on their luck. If nothing else, it gave me an opportunity to practice my 'innocent little darling' act with my teachers, AND with the bobbies and all else when the asking started. Seems I do it rather well, least none doubted me. Well, except for Maudie, who didn't doubt me as such, but who gave me a long measuring look when the word hit the streets, and then a fierce embrace, a kiss on the forehead and poured me a glass of bourbon, along with one of whiskey, and sent me in to sit with Peter. "Go! Give him the drink, let him complain to you, you sing 'im one of your songs, in that child's voice of yours, or tell 'im one of the old stories. Best avoid your own woman's voice for awhile, til some time 'as passed, til 'e's less likely to make the connection." And she and I exchanged a nod and a grim smile. No, helpless I'm not, nor particularly forgiving of those who hurt those I care about. Never have been, never will be, and I have no regrets about that. Don't bother telling me that's not a civilized attitude; no one has ever accused any member of Clan O'Donnell, the Shantai, of being civilized, and just as well; we don't take kindly to insults, you know.

The last danger, well, that came when Marisol was giving me my 'final exam', so to speak. We'd avoided having Peter see me in my full 'woman's regalia', knowing how he'd react. Yet, she wanted to see how I handled myself, sort of a final exam, you know? She warned him to stay away, that we would be busy and he'd only get in the way of her testing me. Still, despite Marisol's instructions, he showed up at The Bull that night and caught me in that little black dress, unbound for once so fairly bursting forth, with the high heels, black stockings and a dark wig over my own red hair, made up just as you'd expect. Sufficeth to say, he was not amused. Brought it too close to home, too close to making him see me as the young woman I was, not the girl-child he kept trying to convince himself of. Remember I'd said he was skittish? Well, this was a full blown panic if I'd ever seen one. Was told, all in that smoke and whiskey voice, that if I ever put on such again, he'd see me on a train back home before the day was out! And he meant it. It was small comfort to see his body was raging at him as mine was raging at me. And the next day, other than being slightly tense, we were back to the normal for us, to Marisol's quite evident amusement, along with Maudie's, since Marisol AND Peter had each confided in her. I would have loved to hear each of their points of view, but sadly, Maudie never shared. Perhaps I should ask her sometime, though she'd not be likely to tell me without their consent. 

The circle, all the elements, not appearing one by one and interlinking, but appearing again and again, in different sequence, forming not a chain but a braid, and that braid melting into a whole, though with the pattern showing on the surface, but one solid thing underneath that surface. And if I had to name just one part of it that formed the essence? It would have been the caring, above and beyond, underlying all - the caring.

So, the year ended, and I returned home. I'll not recount our farewells; they were both sweet and painful, and I fought fiercely the urge to Change to Wolf and stay, roaming the alley in order to be close to him. Had we been somewhere else, where there was game to hunt, a place to shelter, I might have defied all and done exactly that. But the East End of London had no such food for the hunting, unless I became a predator that would be in defiance of all I was taught to respect and honor, no such place of shelter, and I could hardly put Maudie to the hardship of providing for me. So I returned home. We are required to appear before the Grandmother and the Council within two weeks of the end of our Internship, and while the details of that are not to be spoken of with outsiders, I have to say they were rather taken-aback. The Far-Seekers were called in, and also the Truth-Seeker, not doubting my sincerity, mind you, but wondering if I had mistaken the facts of things, and they confirmed what I told them; I was Bonded, no longer Ta'l, most likely now Ta-shea, since I had no evidence of a Ta-Ket Bond. I could hardly blame them for questioning, for such a bonding happens not even in every generation, but sometimes skipping several generations before appearing again. So, Ta-shea - indeed, I was sure Peter would reject even the idea of such as that, much less of Ta-Ket, a dual bonding. And so it was pronounced to the Clan, and the Council declared it so, and even those few who felt uneasy at the idea and thought to disuade me were forced to accept the reality. And so my life took a different turn. I returned home, spoke to my parents, put certain things into place, with their approval after we had a long discussion. Peter would share in what I had, what I would have; at least, a full half would be set aside for him, in his own name. My father questioned that, thought I should reconsider, since this was not a full Bond, not a Ta-Ket such as he had with my mother, but I denied that reasoning. I told him, "it is a full Bond, at least on my part. I, Caeide, am Bonded, and have the right, to my mind the responsibility to behave as if I am Bonded. My Bondmate should, indeed HAS have a right to a full half; the fact that I am not HIS Bondmate, not yet, maybe never, that does not affect MY part of this." And they agreed, indeed honored me in my resolve, and helped me do what needed to be done, and gave their word that should something befall me, he would still have his due. Whether they could make him accept, giving his rather remarkable stubbornness, well, that was another issue. 

For me, it was back to Haven, helping my cousin Maeve, making plans for the expansion and fruition of what she and my aunts and I had so hoped to build. And even more was it a priority, since the Far-Seekers had said that the time would come, not just once but many times, when those I cared for deeply, both now, and those I would come to care for in the future, would need a refuge, a place to safeguard and nourish them, and that place would be Haven; it would be up to me to help to build and offer such a place, with Agnera and Kathleen and Maeve all firmly in favor of the idea when it was put to them, them long having envisioned such. If there was a touch of sadness in the eyes of the Far-Seekers when they spoke of the future, I tried not to dwell upon it, not wanting to think of any harm befalling any of those I cared for. In no part did they tell me, give me any hint of which of those I cared for would come to seek shelter at Haven, and no reassurance was I given that Peter would seek me out, or come to me if I sought him. Nothing was given to me, except the words that what I could provide would be needed, and if I could not provide, those I cared for would be lost. And what better incentive could I have, in reality, than to know that my striving would be meaningful, would be needed by those who meant something to me? Is that not a worthy cause to which to commit your life? And so I committed myself, my mind and hands and strong young back and my belief and faith. And I truly did not get even a glimpse of the tragic way the stewardship of Haven would fall into my hands, and would never have wanted it to be so. Still, fate is not ours to command; that I knew full well, and saw no sense in trying to probe into its mysteries. And I knew I had my work cut out for me, especially with my resolve to set aside Peter's portion of my income, for him as need came to him, while still fulfilling all the responsibilities that now fell to my hand. Through all that, the letters were passed back and forth. Me to Maude and Marisol, and most certainly to my beloved Peter. Letters were received from each of them as well, and Peter writing far more than I'd ever expected. When the trouble came, the war, then was I called upon on occasion to help, as was Maeve. But still, Haven was growing, becoming what we wanted, needed it to be. The year had ended, but the journey, ah, the journey had just begun.

**Author's Note:**

> This, the first mention of Clan O'Donnell in this Saga, re-establishes the tie between Newkirk and the Clan. The Clan does get around; you will find them deeply involved with my Garrison's Gorillas stories, as well. They are pivotal to the Man from Uncle/Girl from Uncle story 'Ashtore', as well as The Persuaders story 'Wrong End of the Stick'. I was an early fan of the Andre Norton stories, and the Clan and their ways, their history and their talents drew heavily from that influence. Suspend your feet-on-the-ground disbelief and the ride will go much more smoothly.


End file.
